


The Prince And The Finch

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All Bad Draco All The Time, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bathing/Washing, Branding, Complete, D/s, Dark Mark Kink, Dubious Consent, F/M, Feeding, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Green apples, Harry Potter AU, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Tattoos, Voyeurism, Whipping, black leather gloves, collar and leash, mostly - Freeform, no magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-04 15:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: This work is COMPLETEDThe Trainer yanked her forward, like he had all the others, instructing her to turn and bow and let the King inspect her. She did exactly as she was told, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Just before she was pulled back into the line she looked up, her glittering green eyes bright with tears. Her nervous gaze locked on The Prince’s and she gasped, stumbling backwards into the arms of her friend.  He’d never seen a girl so purely and so beautifully terrified.“Her,” he said, pointing before they were lead out of the chamber. “What’s her name?”The Trainer pulled her forward again and The Prince sat up straight, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.  She didn’t speak, looking from the King to the Prince, to her friend, to the balcony that she no doubt wanted to throw herself off of.“Tell Prince Draco your name, whore,” the Trainer said, kicking at the backs of her knees so that she dropped to the stone floor. When she cried out in pain the Prince felt his cheeks burning, a shiver running through his blood.“Ginev…G-Ginny, sir,” she said, not daring to look up.





	1. Inspection

The castle was hundreds of years old, the stones blackened with soot and blood, weathered by dirt and time and the salt of the sea; even the windows only allowed in darkened light through stained glass panes, jewel tones of green and purple and deep red. When lit by torch light, it almost seemed as if the hallways were haunted by the generations that had occupied it, shadows and secrets hiding behind every corner and down every spiral staircase. In the silence, it felt like a tomb.

Only the throne room seemed alive, one wall opened to a stone balcony that looked out over the rocky cliff and the sea beyond, the ceiling vaulted where a massive black iron chandelier hung, dripping with candles that were replaced every day, their wax occasionally falling like a burning rain on the unlucky servant who walked beneath. The walls were draped with tapestries in dark, muted colors, alternating with the arching stained glass windows that threw diamonds of color across the floor and over the long, low tables where the small court gathered, their tall backed chairs facing the three black thrones that towered over them, nearly ten feet off the ground, a set of eight steep stairs leading to their platform, stones worn smooth from the knees of the loyal.

The King sat in his throne as if it were molded to him, straight backed, head held high, a simple black iron crown sitting atop his long flaxen hair. He relished the power he had over his small but wealthy kingdom, one that was expanding as his armies marched unchallenged through the surrounding lands, laying waste to smaller cities, then nations, plundering them for all they had and leaving the rest of it burned to the ground. Beside him a smaller, more delicate seat, with painstakingly carved scrollwork, flowers and leaves curling up the legs and over the arm rests, sat empty, a beautiful iron tiara on a silver and green cushion to mark where the Queen had once sat. He’d lost her years ago, vowing never again to marry.

And on his other side sat the Prince. If it were possible, he was feared even more than his more reserved father. Not because he had more power, but because he had more anger, more bitterness, and less control over the urges of his darkened soul. He was like a child with a newly sharpened weapon, swinging his blade without looking, and putting everyone in danger. In all other ways he was a near mirror image of his father; tall and handsome, although he kept his white blonde hair short for the rare times he went out in his armor.

Tonight, the throne room hummed with celebration. There was music, a feast, the concubines danced between the tables as the nobility chattered and laughed, raising their glasses to another victory. The King looked over at his son, who sat silent, brooding, slouched down deep in his throne, one long leg stretched out in front of him, his chin resting in his hand. In the moonlight from the balcony, his sleepy eyes flashed silver, sweeping over the room bored, uninterested in any of the proceedings.

Between them a chain rattled. His father’s chosen concubine for the evening was kneeling beside the throne, her head resting comfortably against the King’s knee as he ran his hand through her hair. She wore the gown of a broken slave, simple black fabric draped over one arm, an emerald green sash tied at her waist. It was cut low enough that the Prince could easily see her breasts, the dusky nipples hardened in the cold air. That was what finally made him smile. Not because he was attracted to her, but because of how far she’d fallen. Pansy had been a princess at one time, on a throne as high as his. He’d visited her castle as a child, remembering her as a haughty, selfish little bitch even at the age of eight. And now here she was, sucking the cock of a king and living in a windowless cell with ten other girls. She saw him sneering at her and pulled the fabric of her dress closer together, leaning in deeper to the King’s touch.

“Perhaps if we brought in the latest…spoils,” the King said, looking at his son. “I hear there are some beautiful specimens.”

The Prince shrugged, raising an eyebrow. His father didn’t yet trust him with a concubine of his own, fearing his…passion…was too uncontrolled. But he didn’t mind, finding that fucking the servant girls was just as satisfying. There were also the village girls, the ones who couldn’t say no, particularly when they were short on their tax payments, and a few noble women, some of them twice his age who were willing to do deplorable, delicious things in order to have a taste of his youth. Still, he was willing to see what was on offer.

A small group of girls were brought in, their hands shackled to their waists, barefoot and dirty, huddled together in a group. Young daughters from a conquered village, they wore the gowns of unbroken slaves, white fabric with a belt of hammered copper and a collar to match. The fabric was sheer enough to show the darkness of their nipples, the shadow of hair between their legs, and it was cut low enough in the back that it exposed the swaying curve of their lower back, the thin chain from their collar hanging down between their shoulder blades. The Prince sat up a bit straighter, looking them over. One girl was as pale and delicate as a glass, her eyes wide and blue, blonde hair like a tangled mess of straw down her back, a little trickle of dried blood at the corner of her mouth where she’d been reprimanded. Beside her, one who looked a bit older, and definitely prouder. She stood with her head held high, mouth set in an angry frown, her curly brown hair wild and long, fiery dark eyes piercing as she glared right at him. She looked him in the eye. He didn’t care for her. He could tell already she was defiant, and a fighter, and someone who would kick him in the balls twenty times before he broke her down and contrary to his reputation, he didn’t have the energy for it. In truth, most of the girls were true to their status: common; but as they were each brought forward and displayed, his eye was drawn to a ribbon of red hair.

She stood near the back of the group, holding her shackled hands up to her chest, her body trembling hard enough that he could see it from where he sat. Her friend, the girl with the wild dark hair and insufferable pride stood beside her and took her hand, whispering something in her ear. The red haired girl nodded and made an attempt to stand tall, dropping her arms, mimicking her mentor. The Prince was riveted, watching as her façade melted in a matter of seconds, her shoulders rising up to her ears, her eyes darting around the massive room, her arms trying desperately to cover what everyone could see. The Trainer yanked her forward, like he had all the others, instructing her to turn and bow and let the King inspect her. She did exactly as she was told, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Just before she was pulled back into the line she looked up, her glittering green eyes bright with tears. Her nervous gaze locked on The Prince’s and she gasped, stumbling backwards into the arms of her friend. He’d never seen a girl so purely and so beautifully terrified.

“Her,” he said, pointing before they were lead out of the chamber. “What’s her name?”

The Trainer pulled her forward again and The Prince sat up straight, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. She didn’t speak, looking from the King to the Prince, to her friend, to the balcony that she no doubt wanted to throw herself off of. 

“Tell Prince Draco your name, whore,” the Trainer said, kicking at the backs of her knees so that she dropped to the stone floor. When she cried out in pain the Prince felt his cheeks burning, a shiver running through his blood.

“Ginev…G-Ginny, sir,” she said, not daring to look up.

Her voice was raspy and weak, a tiny sound in the cavernous room, but it drilled right through him and he felt the blood rushing to his cock. It was almost ridiculous. There was no reason for it. She was nothing. He sat back, licking his lips, nodding to the Trainer to take her away.

The slaves were lead from the room and The Prince watched them go, feeling his father’s eyes on him the whole time.

“Drac—“

“She’s mine,” he said, interrupting the King. “As of now. No one else touches her. I’ve waited long enough for your permission.”

“She’ll be yours, once she’s trained. Once you’ve –“

“No, I’ll break her myself,” the Prince said, looking down at Pansy, who was all but cowering against the King’s leg. It was rare to hear the Prince say two words, much less argue with his father. She didn’t like being caught between them.

“Train her. You will train her. These are human beings, Draco. I won’t hand her over to you to satisfy your bloodlust.”

The Prince sighed but still stared at the girl on the floor, his lips twisted into a cruel smile as he watched her curl into herself. He reached out and stroked her hair with one black gloved hand, rubbing a lock of it between two of his fingers. Did she remember pushing him away when he’d tried to smell her hair when she was a girl? He let go of her and she turned away from him, the King placing a protective hand on the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry Father. I’m not going to waste an opportunity. I’ll make sure the girl survives.” He stood then, hopping down the stairs to grab a ripe apple from the table, biting into the flesh with a loud snap and sucking the tart juice in over his teeth. “I’ve always taken good care of my pets.”


	2. Acquisition

She cowered on the floor of the cell they’d all been herded into the day before. It was dark and windowless, the air heavy and damp, letting the cold seep into their bones, the only light afforded them from torches placed outside the iron bars. There were, at least, a few thin, straw filled mattress and pitchers of tepid water in their lavish quarters, but otherwise it may as well have been a cave. She didn’t care. In fact she welcomed the darkness. At this point she was wondering what it would feel like to fling herself over the throne room balcony into the choppy sea. Would she feel it? Would her body shut down and grant her a blissful passing, a few moments of flying, the wind in her hair and then nothing? And if not, would being dashed against the rocks be worse than being singled out by that Prince?

The other girls, her friends from the village, some of them relatives, others nearly strangers from outlying farms, were huddled together in smaller groups, whispering and staring, some even laughing at her obvious fate.

“I’ve heard he’s roasted girls alive, like a pig on a spit,” one of them said, her mouth set in an unfriendly sneer. Being overlooked had made her bold. “Bet he’ll run a pike right through you and turn you over a fire.”

Her friends giggled at the image while the girl sprawled on the floor, her legs in the air like a roasted hog.

“Think he’ll shove an apple in her mouth?” One of them mused.

“She’ll get something in her mouth,” the first girl said, and the little group burst into laughter again.

“Why don’t you keep your mouths shut?”

Her friend Hermione had taken up for her again, shielding her, both physically and emotionally from the rest of the captured women, some of whom seemed almost jealous that the Dark Prince hadn’t asked their names. “She’s going to be fine.”

“How do you know that?” Ginny asked, looking down at her feet, blackened from walking barefoot, chained behind a horse for nearly fifteen miles. Her shins were covered in scratches and welts from nettles and thistles, her knees bruised from stumbling on the rocky paths to the castle.

Not only was she terrified, she was hurting, and exhausted. Her throat was sore, raw from the cold wind of the sea, the muscles in her legs burning and tight. She remembered the hot springs she’d gone to once with Hermione and Luna, soaking in the warm water beneath low hanging trees, laughing and hiding their nakedness beneath the dark surface when some local shepherds had wandered too close.

“His father won’t let him,” Hermione told her, pulling the shivering girl into her arms to stroke her hair. “He won’t just let his son murder women on a whim. He can't.”

But Ginny could tell her voice wasn’t as confident as it had always been. How could it be? They were nothing but slaves now, all hopes for any kind of future burnt in the ashes of their village, their parents killed, their brothers run through with swords from Lucius’ soldiers.

“My legs hurt, I’m tired,” Ginny said, tears in her eyes, resting her head back against the stone wall. “I can’t breathe down here. There are rats. I just want to be left alone.”

She slid down to stretch out on the cold mattress and Hermione lay beside her, wrapping her arms around the girl from behind and holding her close. Her initial plan had been to stay on guard, to be alert for any signs of escape any ways to hide, but they’d had a treacherous few days and her body was exhausted. They would rest now and then tomorrow they would fight.

****

“Wake up! Wake up, all of you. Make yourselves presentable!”

The Trainer stood outside the cell and bellowed in at them, knocking his staff against he bars. Ginny sat up, having been unable to sleep for hours she’d just lay in the darkness and stared at nothing, listening to the wind and waves wash in off the sea. Now her back and neck were stiff, her legs feeling as if they’d be beaten with a club. In the dim torchlight of the dungeons she could see the Prince himself standing behind the Trainer, taller than she had even imagined, his legs set wide apart, hands folded behind his back as if waiting for an opponent. His eyes were in shadow but she could see his lips turned up into a lopsided smirk.

“Hermione,” she said, shaking the shoulder of her friend. “Wake up. He’s here.”

The cell door opened and the newly woken girls scattered then cowered like a disturbed flock of birds, settling into the dark corners, holding each other as the Prince’s black leather boots crunched over the dirty floor. He was dressed similarly to the day before, all in black, worn leather riding pants and knee length boots. As he stepped closer, his eyes roaming the room, Ginny saw that his whole suit was leather, a high buttoned vest and long tailed jacket, even his hands were covered in tight leather gloves, a stark contrast to his almost silvery pale skin and white hair. She was reminded of her mother telling her about the archangels, flawlessly beautiful but terrifying in their unmatched power. It was easy to imagine shiny black wings unfurling from his back or a tail whipping over his shoulder as he roamed around the room. Hermione pushed Ginny behind her, as if maybe he’d forget exactly who he was looking for, the only flame haired girl in the room.

And then he was there, crouching down to look at her as if checking for an animal in a trap, his head tipped to the side, his eyes a menacing gold in the torchlight. He grabbed her ankle, scowling at the dirt on her feet and the smudges on her face. She froze as he stared, feeling her heartbeat in her ears, her breath caught short as if her lungs couldn’t pull in enough air. He lunged forward a few inches, laughing as she backed up to the wall, her hands over her mouth.

“So dirty and broken and so fucking scared,” he said, still smiling, his eyes still locked on hers.

“Leave her alone,” Hermione said, her voice firm and unafraid.

The Prince whirled on her, his hand closing over her throat as he slammed her against the wall. The other girls in the room gasped, retreating further into the shadows to avoid his wrath.

“Shut your mouth or I’ll have you drowned.”

“No please, don’t! Let her go.” Ginny called out, seeing her friend struggle for breath.

Still pinning Hermione to the sharp stones, he turned to look at her. He was close enough that she could smell the earthy, sharp scent of his leather mixed with red wine.

“You won’t have your little body guard to keep you safe from me any more,” he said to Ginny, letting Hermione go, falling forward to gasp for breath. “Get up.”

He stood and watched her scramble to her feet, smoothing the fabric of her gown, but before she could fully get her footing he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the exit.

“These girls have been here two days already and some of them are sorely in need of discipline,” he said to the Trainer. “It's embarrassing. See that they’re broken, soon.”

“Yes your highness.”

Ginny looked over her shoulder at her friend, still coughing and gasping for air but looking up to see her go. Then she was pushed out of the cell and into the corridor, his tall frame blocking her view.

“Follow me,” he said, striding ahead of her, his boots loud on the stone floor.

Within only a few feet she was wincing, her whole body a constellation of pain. She put her hand on the stone wall to help guide her as she followed him up steep flights of stairs. He stopped walking and turned to watch her struggle, his face twisted in confusion.

“Are you injured?” He asked, making no attempt at sympathy, only frustration.

“No s-sir,” she said, trying to pull herself to stand tall. “My muscles, my feet are tired and blistered from walking. We came fifteen miles from the village, barefoot.”

For a minute he only stared, unmoved, looking her over as she did her best to hide her pain. For a brief moment she wondered if he was going to pick her up, carry her wherever they were headed, but instead he smiled and waved a hand beckoning her to keep going.

“It isn’t much further,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be on your back soon enough.”

The staircase wound around the corner turret and then down a dark, narrow hall. It seemed as if the rest of the castle was empty or they were in a part of it that was abandoned. There were bird’s nests in the corners of the paneless windows and she shivered in the cold.

“Where are we going?” she asked, unsure of whether she were allowed to speak. He hadn’t forbidden it.

“My chambers,” he said, not stopping, not turning to look at her. “It’s where you’ll be staying from now on.”

The thought of it made her stomach drop, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“I’m….I haven’t been trained to be a proper concubine, your highness. I wouldn’t…”

He suddenly stopped and she nearly ran into his broad back, holding her hands out to stop herself and quickly pulling back when she touched his jacket.

“Oh but you’re not going to be a proper concubine,” he said, turning the handle on a heavy wooden door. “You’re going to be my pet.”


	3. Introduction

The room, if it could be called just a room, was nearly as big as her entire home back at the village and the three stained glass windows along the eastern wall flooded it with bright, but eerily colored light. He stepped in ahead of her and she lingered back on the threshold, speechless and staring. The stone floors were covered with layers of furs and woven rugs, the walls draped in heavy fabric that puddled at the floor, giving it the appearance of a spacious, but warm cocoon. He pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned the cuffs of his silk shirt, finally turning to see her still hesitating in the doorway.

“Come over here girl,” he said, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. “You’re perfectly safe for the moment.”

She stepped in, her feet sinking into the soft furs, daring to look around at her captor’s lair. Most obvious was his bed, actually built into the far end of the room. The four posts surrounding it appeared as trees rooted to the ceiling and the floor, thick, rough, thorn covered vines carved into the trunks and stained so dark they appeared black. The mattress it held was covered in sumptuous furs and silks in black and deep green still tangled in a messy heap from where he'd slept the night before. Heavy curtains were gathered in the corners, hanging down to the floor. A black lacquered chest at the end of the bed served as a bench that he sat on now, watching as she took in the surroundings, her eyes darting into every corner, sweeping over every surface.

_Always be looking for something to help you_. That’s what Hermione always told her. She said that even when people were talking they would give you hints as to what they really wanted, even in the way the stood or how they moved their hands. _Everything is a clue_.

At the center of the room was a fireplace, already crackling to take away the morning chill. Opposite his bed sat a high sided iron bathtub that she eyed hungrily. There were shelves lined with leatherbound books, frames with maps of countries she’d never seen, dark, but detailed paintings whose scenes made her cheeks feel hot. Oil lamps hung from chains in the ceiling, but what caught her eye and held on were the cages. She thought she’d heard birds when she came in, and there they were, a black iron cage filled with white doves perched on branches, huddled together for warmth. Beside them was a smaller cage with a small white creature resembling a mink or an ermine, curled up, its furry tail flicking occasionally to prove it was alive. And finally, against one wall was a cage with very narrow bars holding a massive, coiled snake, thick and white, its jewel like eyes watching her. Her exploration had sent her roaming, but now she was finally standing in front of him, unable to look him in the eye, finding his gaze too powerful. It made her legs tremble in their already weakened state.

“Why do you have all these animals?” she asked, glancing up and then down again.

“I like putting pretty things in cages,” he said. “Sit down.”

There was a high backed leather chair and ottoman beside the fireplace, but she suspected he didn’t mean for her to move so far, so she hesitated until he sighed and said,

“The floor.”

She sunk down onto the rug in front of him, her dirty feet tucked up underneath. Draco crossed one of his legs over the other, the toe of his boot only inches from her face.

“How old are you?” He asked.

“Twenty. Just twenty,” she answered, her eyes sliding back to the cage with the snake, which was slowly uncoiling itself. She found the movement soothing.

“Who did you live with back in your village?”

Her heart squeezed tight with sadness as she remembered the troops of soldiers slashing through the cluster of houses, kicking in doors and pulling people out by their hair and throwing them into the dirt.

“M-my parents passed away when I was young,” she said. “Hermione’s family took me in. I lived with her and her parents and brothers.”

While waiting for another question, she felt something hard and cool against her face. It was the toe of his boot, tipping her chin up and forcing her to turn away from the snake.

“Look at me when I’m asking you questions,” he said, and she nodded, swallowing the hard lump in her throat. When she looked up she was staring into those eyes, pale and silvery, flashing and dimming as the light danced behind the clouds. “So you weren’t married then?” He asked, leaning back on his palms. “Or promised to anyone.”

“No sir,” she said.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked, as casually as asking her age.

“Yes,” she answered, looking down at the floor again, feeling her whole body blush, her chest, her throat, up to her cheeks.

It wasn’t that he particularly cared about any of these answers, but he just wanted to see what she was like, how jumpy, how bold, how obedient. The longer he looked down the front of her white gown, however, the more he wanted to pounce, to flip her onto her stomach and pump himself deep inside her. But he knew that the longer he waited, the sweeter it would be. Not only the anticipation, but the fear. She would be waiting, she would be wondering when he would touch her, and how; whether he would hurt her, kill her? She would jump at every touch, every harsh word, her mouth going dry every time he called her name. He would never tell her, but the sight of her curled up on the floor at his feet was beautiful. It was an image he’d never get out of his mind, all of her hair swept over her shoulder, the copper collar bringing out the mottled green in her eyes, accenting the creaminess of her skin. He stood and walked to the table beside the fireplace and poured himself a goblet of wine, leaving her to sit in silence.

When he’d decided to keep her he’d called the blacksmith to his chamber and had him alter the wall beside his bed. There was a small pile of furs set on the floor where he’d had two heavy eye bolts hammered into the stone, six feet of chain hanging from each one. A small wooden chest held shackles and chains and other necessary tools the Prince might need while training his new pet, but for now she seemed to be docile. Somewhere outside the room he heard bells, a steady ringing of ten chimes and he set down his glass.

“Ok pet,” he said, nearly laughing out loud at how she flinched, her head whipping around to look at him. “I have other duties to attend to, but I’ll be back for you soon. Come over to me.”

She hesitated, trying to gather herself and instantly felt the sting of her hair being ripped from her scalp. He’d grabbed a fistful and pulled her to her feet, wrenching her head backwards so he could look at her. She wouldn’t focus on his face, darting her gaze this way and that, the tears running from the corners of her eyes.

“When I give you an order, you obey it right away. I’m not here to wait on you, m’lady,” he said. His mouth was so close to hers, his breath hot on her skin, his eyes searching her face. While he watched her, his lips curled up into a wicked sneer, his other hand stroking over the side of her face before he grabbed her jaw to hold her still. “So skittish and scared, like a tiny little bird. A little finch trying to hide from a hawk.”

He pulled her in tight against his body and she could feel him, hard against her thigh, the leather and buttons of his vest rough against her exposed skin. Letting go of her hair but still holding her jaw, he bent down to nuzzle against her neck, to smell her sweat, the scent of her terror, to absorb the way she actually shook in his arms. Pushing her back he turned her to face away from him, unfastening the stiff copper belt that held up her gown. It rattled to the floor and he pulled the dirty, thin fabric from her shoulders, leaving her naked but for her collar and the fine chain that was hooked to it, dangling down her back. When he stepped away she crumpled to the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself to try and hide.

“Since you’ll be staying in here, you won’t have any need for this, little finch,” he said, throwing the remnants of the gown into the fireplace.

The tears were streaming down her face now, but she did her best not to sob, not to gasp or cough or attract his attention in any way. She just wanted him to kill her and be done with it, beat her unconscious, strangle her until she passed out. She didn’t want to feel any of what she knew was going to happen. Peeking through her lashes she saw him standing in front of her, his boots, his long legs. This time he didn’t even bother to ask, just grabbed her hair and pulled her up, dragging her to her spot against the wall without a word. She curled into herself and backed into the corner away from him as he hooked the heavy black chain to her neck. She watched carefully as he moved through the room, running a hand through his hair to neaten it, unrolling and smoothing the sleeves of his shirt and shrugging into his jacket. A terrifying archangel with wings of fire. She shivered in the cold and he smiled at her.

“I’ll be back to warm you up later on, little finch. Be good until then.”

He tipped her chin up with two gloved fingers and pressed a small, chaste kiss to her closed lips. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, the rough clunk and chink of the lock echoing in her ears as his boots faded down the corridor.

It must have been an hour that she cried, until her lungs burned, her eyes stinging, head pounding with hunger and exhaustion. Across from her like a watchful guardian, the white snake picked up its head, resting it on the coiled hill of its own body and blinked at her. Clouds gathered outside, darkening the room and she curled into the corner, running her fingers over the heavy eye bolt hammered into the wall. She curled her fingers around the loop and tried to twist it, pulling and wiggling, but it didn’t move. It was useless. The heavy copper collar had been soldered to her neck and the chain was iron. In the corner the doves fluttered and repositioned themselves, cooing to each other, comfortable in their captivity. She wondered how long they’d been there, how long it had taken. Thunder rumbled and rain started drumming against the windows, wind whistling through the cracks in the stones, making the flames of the oil lamps flutter.

_Keep yourself safe_ , Hermione had said to her, whispering into her hair when they couldn’t sleep. _Being alive is worth more than your pride. You’ll find a way to survive it until he gets bored and moves on to someone else_.

She was freezing. And now that he’d left the room she was collapsing under the weight of spent adrenaline. And even though she was sure that locking her to this place on the floor was meant to be a humiliation, the furs and rugs were softer than anything she’d ever slept on and becoming harder and harder to resist. She pulled a black bearskin around her shoulders and curled onto her side facing the wall…not wanting to fall asleep staring into the eyes of the snake.


	4. The Twisted Snake

The Prince thundered through the corridors back to his chambers, unable to keep his fists from clenching and releasing, his teeth grinding against his clenched jaw. He’d been with his father for hours, listening to him prattle on and on about how he needed to grow up, to learn a little self control. He waxed poetic on finding a balance between dark and light, how there was a time for everything, but he needed to start being the man that he was meant to be so that one day he’d be prepared to be a leader. Then he’d wanted to discuss strategy for the remaining counties and villages north of the kingdom, followed by a debate about whether they should be mining in the west. It was all a farce, and Draco knew it. None of these things were urgent, and either not important enough for the Prince to worry about or too important for him to decide.

“You had the blacksmith running around in the middle of the night last night?” Lucius asked. “Was anything wrong?”

“Not at all, father,” The Prince said, twirling a long black key between his fingers. “Just preparing for my guest.”

“You know, son, that I spent my youth on the same dangerous games you enjoy, and our…proclivities, I realize, are similar,” the King said, his eyes flicking over to Pansy, sprawled out asleep in his bed on her stomach, the blanket just barely covering her shapely ass, her back covered with red welts and bruises.

The sight of her made Draco’s cock twitch, imagining those same stripes on his girl’s back, listening to her beg for him to stop, groveling at his feet. He adjusted the way he sat and looked back at his father, now fully aware of what this half day seminar on the challenges of being royalty was really about. The truth was that his father knew that he’d brought the girl to his chambers and was trying to buy her time. For some bizarre reason he was trying to protect her – a prisoner, the spoils of war. He pushed back angrily from the table, knocking one of the servant girls to the ground, red wine splashing across the front of his vest.

“Clumsy bitch,” he said, kicking her hard enough in the side that she was flipped onto her back. “DRACO!” His father stood from his seat, pounding his fist on the table. “Don’t touch her again.”

The girl scrambled to her feet and left the room sobbing, doubled over in pain.

“The next time you want me to come to you and waste half a day, at least provide some decent entertainment. Or opium. I’m going back to my chamber and I won’t be disturbed.”

The King made his way around to stand in front of him, his eyes reflecting the same fire he saw in his son. After all, he’d been just as angry, just as bitter as Draco in his youth; impetuous and passionate; wasteful and selfish, taking out all of his black energy on the innocents that surrounded him. In fact it wasn’t until he watched his wife waste away that he saw how fruitless it all was.

She was a woman of unmatchable beauty. She’d been funny and brilliant and when she had their son, it only filled her with further light, doting on her little golden haired boy, teaching him waltzes when he was four, singing to him while he was taught fencing, reading ancient myths with him out on the great stone balcony watching him act out the epic battles. And then he’d watched her skin turn as delicate as paper, her hair falling out in clumps, eyes watery and sunken, cocoa colored shadows surrounding them as she battled a sickness that no one could cure. As it ate away at his wife’s body he watched it decimate his son’s soul. What little kindness and softness that he’d inherited from his mother had shriveled up and died…no…not died, because Draco was still alive, and he was still very young. And as his father, he had to believe, that having come from something as beautiful as her, that there was still light in him…dormant, starving, a tiny sprout in salted earth, something that kept him human. So before his son could leave his chambers, Lucius grabbed him by both of his shoulders, forcing him to focus his eyes, to blink and breathe, to not storm out in a rage. It wasn’t good for him, this anger, or for the girl he held prisoner.

“If you’re that drawn to her, maybe there is something in her that you need,” the King said, almost sickened by the way his son’s pupils dilated, the way the corner of his mouth curled up wickedly.

“Oh I know there is, Father. And I plan on fucking it out of her one day at a time.”

He stepped around the King, making his way for the exit, giving the sleeping Pansy a hard smack on the ass before laughing his way out the door.

* * *

 

He threw the door to his room open hard enough that it rattled against the stone wall, waking Ginny from her fitful sleep. It was still storming outside and the room flickered with mottled light, the doves in their cage restlessly cooing, feeling the electricity in the air. At the sight of his boots only inches from her face she sat up, holding the black fur around her naked body. Whatever had taken him out of the room hadn’t pleased him. She could see his eyes flashing silver in the low light, a shock of hair hanging wild in front of his eye.

“What is this?” He asked, nudging her with the toe of his boot. “When I come for you, you should be ready for me,” he said, his feet set wide apart, fists clenched tight.

She swallowed, looking for her voice. “I’m sorry. I—don’t know…what do you mean?”

He crouched down and pulled the fur away, the cold hitting her as hard as a punch.

“Awake for one thing, and up on your knees. If I wanted you wearing anything I wouldn’t have burned your gown.” She scrambled to sit up, hands folded into her lap. “Better,” he sighed and rubbed his eyes in frustration, or maybe disappointment, but instead of saying a word, he headed to the chest at the end of the bed and sat down, exhaling a sigh that seemed to hold the weight of the world.

As he took off his jacket, two servant girls came in carrying what looked like cauldrons or buckets of water. They poured them into the iron bathtub and scurried out, one of them glancing, wide-eyed, at Ginny before leaving. She shrunk away, as if feeling the pity and shame and embarrassment pouring from the girl physically. The Prince pulled his gloves off, tugging one finger at a time, then unbuttoned his vest and untucked his silk shirt before bending down to pull off his boots, throwing them across the room with a heavy clunk. One of them nearly hit the girl who walked in with a pitcher of wine but she simply ducked out of the way and went to the table beside the fireplace, replacing the empty pitcher and filling a goblet for him, setting it next to the chair.

“Will you be taking supper in your room your Highness?” the girl asked, never once lifting her eyes from the ground.

Ginny suspected that this was a common behavior, not wanting to catch the attention, good or bad, of this Prince. Maybe keeping her head down would save her own skin.

“Yes,” he hissed at her. “And bring a little extra, I won’t be leaving the room for a while,” he said, unlacing the top of his pants, but thankfully leaving them on, hanging low on his hips.

“Yes your highness,” she said, quickly leaving the room.

The water bearers came back again, adding more water to the bath, sending clouds of steam into the air. Someone else brought wood to add to the fire and with this final visitor Ginny was entirely humiliated. She tried curling into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest. When she thought the Prince had forgotten she reached for the edge of another rug, quietly pulling it in front of her. His head whipped around and he glared at her.

“Don’t,” he said, and she dropped the rug. “Sit up like I told you to.”

She went back to kneeling and he pulled his shirt off over his head before drinking down half the goblet of wine. For a minute she was transfixed at the sight of him. In stark contrast to the paleness of his skin and hair, his torso was covered in black markings, symbols and shapes like she’d seen on warriors or the ancients in her mythology books. The inside of his left arm held a twisted snake emerging from the head of a skull, on the right, the limp body of a naked woman impaled on a pike; his bicep carried a long, dark blade wrapped in thorns. There were others, smaller and more detailed across his chest, over his heart and down to his stomach. When he turned toward the light she could see that they followed the line of a thick scar, wrapped like a rope around his torso. On his back was a fearsome bird of prey, its claws extended, grasping a crown that twisted and moved with his muscles, nearly appearing alive. These pictures fascinated her, the lines so sharp and dark, the details so precise, she wondered at their meaning.

“See something you like?” he asked, and she realized he was right in front of her. She’d been staring. He crouched down and unfastened her chain then went to sit in the chair beside the fire, his legs stretched out long in front of him, the light from the flames making his skin appear golden. “Come over here girl.”

She didn’t move for a second. Not because she’d intended to disobey but because her body froze. She needed to gather her courage, tamp down her humiliation. And when she looked up his gaze was burning with silent rage. She walked quickly and stood in front of him.

“When I tell you to do something, Finch, you do it. I’m going to hurt you enough without you begging for more,” he said, sipping his wine. Then, patting his leg he said, “sit down.”

She lowered herself onto his leather covered thigh, looking into the flames of the fire, trying to detach herself from it all, to forget that she was entirely naked, that he’d just promised to hurt her, to forget that her family was gone, her village burnt to ash, that her life had essentially ended. A deep pinch at her stomach sent a jolt of pain through her center and she jumped. He’d dug his fingers into the soft skin just below her ribs.

“Don’t do that. The more you disappear from me, the further I’ll go to dig you out. I promise you that.” The water bearers were back with their last cauldrons of hot water and he felt her tense up, her arms instinctually going to cover herself, chin tucked to her chest. “Look at me,” he said, tugging at her hair. She turned to face him, his lips stained dark from the wine, his eyes a bit less angry than before. “Don’t look at anyone but me. Ever. There is no one else but me.”

Ginny nodded as he ran his fingers up and down her bare back, over the little bumps of her spine. When the room was empty he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face down to his. His tongue drove in roughly between her lips, his teeth nipping as he kissed her, digging his fingers into the base of her skull, pulling a whine of pain from deep in her throat. Still, she kissed back. He felt her tongue, warm and tentative, moving to tangle with his, her mouth opening a bit wider to accept him, her soft lips pushing back. It enflamed him and he growled against her, his other hand holding her hip, keeping her pressed against him. He broke away and she gasped, pulling her hand up to cover her mouth as if it had betrayed her, her cheeks red with surprise and perhaps a little something else that she wouldn’t dare admit.

“That’s how you’ll greet me, finch. Every day. Every morning when I wake up; every day when I come for you. Every time I walk in the door I want your mouth on mine like that. Do you understand?”

She nodded and he stood, letting her fall to the floor.


	5. The Price

Kissing was not something she feared. If kissing were all The Prince wanted she would have been happy to comply. Her first kiss had happened years ago, when she was only fifteen. Harry was a groom in one of the village stables, a little bit older than her, but they had been friends since they were small, when he taught her how to fish with a string and some old pieces of stale bread. Then he’d let her ride one of the horses, no saddle, no reins, just Ginny on the horse’s back, her fists tangled into the thick mane of black hair as it ran over the hills toward the river. It was the freest she’d ever felt, and one of her happiest memories, that she drew upon when she couldn’t sleep.

_Harry had been talking to her in front of the house one day that summer when Hermione’s mother came out asking her to pick the last of the blackberries that were growing in the thorny, buggy berry patch behind the house. Ginny agreed to do it but huffed out a sigh when the time came._

_“I’ll do it for you Gin,” Harry said, his bright, moss green eyes twinkling with mischief. He always had some sort of plan, a solution, an out. “For a price.”_

_Ginny scrunched up her nose and raised an eyebrow at him. “A price? You know I don’t have anything.”_

_“A kiss,” he said, cutting her off. “That’s all.”_

_She’d been standing against an old wooden fence, caged in by her friend standing in front of her, a smile on his face that was a touch darker than his usual goofy grin._

_“Th-that’s all?” She repeated, licking her bottom lip._

_She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious, that she hadn’t had dreams of kissing boys, men…mystery suitors coming to her in the shadows. Just one kiss and her chores were done? Harry nodded and, not waiting to hear her answer leaned in to her, his lips pressed to hers, gentle and soft. She remembered thinking how plain, how non-descript and…boring it was, and then he’d flicked his tongue over her closed lips, once, twice, licking at her mouth, teasing it to open. A shiver shot down her back and she gasped for breath, giving him the opportunity to sweep his tongue in over her own, his hand on the side of her face, her back digging into the fence. He kissed her harder and she felt a sudden pulsing, a throbbing between her legs that she’d never felt before. It was overwhelming and glorious._

_“GINEVRA!” Hermione’s mother was standing in the doorway of the house, her face a mixture of horror and disappointment. She waved her broom in Harry’s direction. “Get out of here you little worm, taking advantage of a young girl! Get out!”_

_She jumped from the threshold and chased Harry off the property, all the while swinging her broom. Ginny laughed at the surprised look on Harry’s face and he gave her once last wink before jumping over the property’s stone wall and disappearing back to the stables._

_“I’m sorry,” Ginny said, holding her fingers up to her closed lips, trying to remember exactly how it had felt. The woman stood in front of her, waiting for some explanation. “It was just a kiss. He said he’d pick the rest of the berries for me if I let him kiss me once.”_

_“Yeah, kiss you once,” the older woman said with a snort. “It starts that way. Then everything comes with a price, a kiss, a little touch, a pat on the arse…”_

_“Ma’am!” Ginny had said, blushing a fierce pink._

_“All I’m saying is, that it seems like an easy price…but you don’t want that in exchange for living under a man’s thumb.”_

And no, maybe she didn’t want that, but even now, on the cold floor of Prince Draco’s chambers she could remember that throbbing pulsing feeling deep between her legs, and she knew it would be wrong of her to admit to ever feeling it again in his presence. But she wondered what was going to happen to her, the other "firsts" she'd experience underneath his thumb, and in that not knowing, she feared not being able to keep her body from betraying her when it did.

* * *

 

Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw The Prince by the bathtub, pulling loose the laces of his trousers and letting them fall from his hips. Ginny quickly turned away, embarrassed that she’d been looking, not wanting to be caught like she had when he stripped out of his shirt. She’d never seen a naked man before.

“Get up,” he said, pleased that she immediately pulled herself to her feet. “I’m not going to fuck you looking like you were rolling around in a pig sty for three days. You’re beginning to smell.”

For a tiny moment her jaw clenched and she felt a little flare of rage in her heart like the spark of a blade against a stone; a desire to spit in his face, claw his eyes out, but she knew it would end badly for her, perhaps end permanently, so she only bowed her head taking a few steps closer. His body was lean and chiseled, the scar from his chest lashing all the way down to his hip where she could see the carved V of his muscles, the trail of hair below his navel leading down to his…

“Get in,” he said sharply, holding an arm out to the bathtub. “Before it starts getting cold.”

She walked past him, keeping her eyes away from the long thick muscle between his legs nestled in a patch of golden hair, and stepped into the high sided bath. The water was gloriously warm, scented with a little bouquet of herbs tied together with twine that floated on top. Instantly her body went soft, her joints loose. The sound she made when her body sunk into the water made him shiver; it was somewhere between a groan and cry, as if it was so pleasurable as to hurt. He would be sure to pull that sound from her again. She closed her eyes and lay back, her red hair floating on the surface spread out around her like a starburst, the warmth seeping into her muscles, soothing down to the bone. He stepped in next to her and sat facing the opposite way, his legs stretched out on either side of her frail little body, arms resting on the sides as he watched her soak. The hair on his legs scratched against her hips and she sat up with a start, pulling her knees to her chest, separating the two of them as far as she could. There was a small shelf beside the bath and he pulled down a sponge. Then, choosing one black glass bottle from the collection that sat there, he poured an exotic and musky scented oil onto it and handed it over.

“Go on,” he said, “clean yourself.”

He looked impatient, but also bored, tired…generally unhappy. It was as if he had seen or done too much for being so young, only a year or two older than she was. She wondered for a moment if there had ever been a time when he smiled or laughed, just enjoyed being alive. “ _Everyone was a child once,_ ” Hermione’s mother had always said. “N _o one is born with a blackened soul_.” His foot digging into her stomach roused her from her thought and she picked up the sponge, rubbing it over her arms, the back of her neck. She soaked it full of warm water and squeezed it over her head, slicking her wet hair back from her face. The dark, spicy smell of the oil and the warmth of the water made her sleepy again, her head spinning a bit from dehydration and hunger. It had been two days since she’d eaten, a day since she’d had anything to drink. He splashed water in her face.

“Keep going. I want to see all of it. Wash your cunt.” The word jolted her to attention and he laughed. “I was wondering if you were awake. Get up on your knees and scrub, or I’ll do it for you…and I’ll take much longer, I assure you.”

She sat up on her knees, still feeling a bit dizzy, and pushed the wet sponge between her legs. He tipped his head to the side and licked at his lower lip, watching the water drip from the dark red hair that curled around her sex, the glittering droplets that fell from her tight, rosy nipples. She trembled as he moved closer, putting his hands on her narrow hips. Then, bending forward he buried his nose in the hair between her legs, drinking in the smell of her, her sweat and her fear mixed with the oil, and just a hint, he knew, of her arousal. If he slipped his fingers between her legs he knew he’d find her starting to drip, starting to open. He could tell by the way her cheeks flushed.

“Stop!” She pushed him away hard enough to send water splashing over the sides of the bath and tried to climb out, but he had her around the waist in a flash, pulling her down against his chest. “Now is when you decide to start fighting? After how kind I’ve been to you?” One of his arms was like an iron bar around her stomach, locking her next to his body and the other reached up to close around her throat, squeezing hard enough that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. “Fighting can be a fun game before a good fuck little girl, but I’ll warn you, I’m going to win this one.” She fought harder, squirming under his grip as her vision began to blur. Her lungs burning, squeezing tight behind her ribs. The hard length of his cock pressed in to her back only triggering further terror. “You don’t have the energy to fight me tonight, or the strength. I was trying to be fucking merciful you selfish little bitch.”

Confident she was going to die, Ginny stopped thrashing, going limp against his chest. He let go of her throat and she let her head loll back against his shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sputtered and gasped for breath. For a moment both of them simply sat, breathing, the only sound the crackling fire. His arm across her stomach loosened and he growled in her ear,

“Beg for my forgiveness, finch.”

She couldn’t control her tears, her head shaking from side to side, a sob escaping her lips. She still felt lightheaded and weak. She wanted to be home, even if it was a pile of ashes, or in the dungeon with Hermione, or in the cage with the snake, anywhere but where she was. Draco’s teeth sunk into the side of her neck, digging into the thick tendon that connected to her shoulder and she screamed, her back arching away from him.

“Beg for it,” he said, squeezing her throat again, not quite as tight, but enough to frighten her. She dug her fingers into his forearm, her body taut and arched.

“I can’t…please I can’t breathe…”

With his other hand on the top of her head he pushed her beneath the surface, laughing as she thrashed and kicked. She opened her eyes, letting the hot, oily water sting as she looked up at his blurred and rippling face. Then suddenly he pulled her up again, his hand still tight on her neck.

“You’re not listening to me, finch. Beg for my forgiveness and it will stop.”

“Please! Please your highness, I can’t breathe. I’m sorry! I’m sorry…” she dissolved into sobs, collapsing against his chest.

He let go of her throat and stroked her wet hair, kissing the crown of her head as she cried.

“Shh…I know you’re just learning. You won’t make that mistake again.” He tipped her face up to look at him. “You’re forgiven." She blinked as he still stared down at her, his mouth quirked up at the corner. “Say thank you, sir.”

“Thank you sir,” she said immediately, lowering her eyes.

“Give us a kiss then, girl. We’ll see how grateful you are.”

Pushing herself up with her hand on his chest she pressed her lips against his, instantly feeling the tip of his tongue pushing forward. She opened her mouth and he slipped inside, his warm, wet hand holding tight to her jaw. Slowly he pulled his tongue back and thrust in again, all but fucking her mouth with the force of his kiss, his leg wrapping around hers, the head of his rapidly stiffening prick brushing against her. Pulling her bottom lip between his teeth, he pressed her against the side of the bath, his thigh nudging up between her legs. She sucked a breath in between her teeth.

And the door opened, creaking loudly on its hinges.

“Your supper your highness,” the servant girl said, quickly looking away from where her eyes had fallen.


	6. Wine and Stars

Ginny worried for the chambermaid, who hurriedly put the tray of food on the ottoman and bowed, walking backwards to the door. The Prince, however, simply let Ginny drop back into the bathwater and pulled himself out of the tub, calmly walking across the room completely naked, leaving a trail of water behind him as he pulled a black sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his hips. Still the girl waited at the door, anxious to be dismissed, wringing her hands beneath her apron. Draco looked at the tray of food, pushing pieces of fruit and hunks of meat from side to side as if inspecting it were truly important and not just an exercise in humiliation. Each second seemed endless as both girls waited for him to explode. Ginny sat low in the bath, hiding her nakedness from the girl, watching him saunter around the room; pouring a glass of wine for himself, sticking his finger in the ermine cage, flipping through a book…finally the girl cleared her throat.

“I-is there anything else your highness?” She asked, lowering her eyes.

“Ah!” He looked up as if it were all a complete surprise. “No, I’m so sorry, no. This is all wonderful….” He said, dripping with poison honey, drawing the last word out and pointing as if struggling for her name.

“Katie.”

“Katie. Thank you so much…Katie. And please tell the kitchen,” he said, his words becoming louder and more clipped as he walked closer. “and the chambermaids, and any of the other fifty fucking people who feel they can barge in at any time, that I do NOT want to be disturbed until I open the door and come out of this room on my own! Am I clear, Katie?”

The girl was backed up against the door, Draco towering over her, his forehead pressed against hers as if his anger alone could nail her to the wall.

“Yes sir,” she whispered.

“Good. Get out of my fucking chambers.”

* * *

 

He sat down hard in the leather chair like a lounging god, the sheet knotted around his waist, his wet hair slicked back from his face as he stared into the fire. Ginny sunk down low in the rapidly cooling water, her fingers curled around the edge of the tub as she watched him hungrily pick through his meal, the smell of the roasted chicken and potatoes making her stomach gurgle and clench. He lifted a thick piece of meat to his lips and paused, watching her from the corner of his eye as he licked the juice from his fingers.

“Hungry little finch?”

“Yes sir,” she said, still hiding in her iron fortress. He nodded and waved a hand at her that she should come over and she followed his direction immediately, forgetting her nakedness, forgetting how he’d nearly drowned her, strangled her…nothing mattered right now but food.

“Sit,” he said when she got closer, indicating a spot on the floor by his feet. Still dripping wet, her skin rippling with goosebumps, Ginny kneeled like she had before, sitting back on her heels. He took a moment to admire her shivering body, the tight little points of her nipples, the rapidly developing bruises that dotted her throat like a shadowy constellation of stars; tear stained cheeks, splotchy red with her lips swollen where he’d bit them as they kissed. As soon as she sat down he fastened the length of chain to her neck, letting it lay at her feet, pulling down heavily on the collar, cutting into the tender skin of her neck where he’d choked her. He continued to eat, giving her nothing, just watching as her eyes widened and her frowned deepened, hope fading, moment by moment as the food dwindled. Her eyes followed his every move, every bite and swallow; he was her god. Deciding to relieve a bit of her agony he pulled off a piece of the juicy meat and threw it over her shoulder some ten feet away. She looked up at him, the misery painted plainly across her face and he smiled, one eyebrow arched high.

“Go on then, go get it,” he said, in a tone that she’d heard people use to play with their pets. It was what her hunger had reduced her to: a begging, panting animal, accepting table scraps to survive. She pushed herself up onto her feet only to be dragged back down as he yanked forcefully on the chain.

“I didn’t say get up.” Then, with his bare foot between her shoulders he pushed her down onto all fours. “Now go get it. I want to watch that ass crawl across the room.”

He reached down and slapped her left ass cheek, hard enough to make her yelp, leaving a bright red handprint as evidence. But she was starving, nearly sick to her stomach with thirst and exhaustion, and if crawling was what she had to do to stay alive, she would crawl. She made her way across the floor on her hands and knees, keeping her head low, the posture of a beaten dog.

In fact, she wasn’t like a dog at all, but moved across the room like a sleek, hunting cat. Draco was reminded of a painting in his father’s chambers of two lean panthers stretched out on rocks, a bloody kill on the ground before them. When she moved her hips dipped and swayed, her shoulder blades poking up as her arms reached forward, her wet hair like a sleek ribbon over her shoulder. She picked up the meat and ate it quickly, her face turned away from him as she devoured it, then turned on her knees and crawled back, sending him spinning off into the same trance, only now he could see her full breasts hanging between her arms, the color high on her freckled cheeks. He would make her crawl to him everyday, he thought. Just to see it, to see that lithe beast coming for him, her bright, forest colored eyes glowing with heat.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice cracking with tension he hadn’t intended to reveal. “Come here and get some more.”

Frowning, skeptical, she came closer to his chair as he picked up a green apple, snapping off a thick slab of it with his teeth. Instantly she could smell the bright, fresh juice, her stomach growling yet again. He held the piece out to her and then pulled it back, set it between his teeth and spread his legs wide, patting his thigh. Steeling her resolve yet again, she crawled closer, wedging herself between his legs and going up on her knees, her hands on his thighs as he bent his head down to give her the fruit. She snatched it from his mouth with her own like the frightened animal she was and sat back on her heels to eat it, the juice dripping down her chin.

Once she’d swallowed, Draco grabbed her arm and pulled her up into his lap, licking the droplets that had run to her throat, trailing a line of kisses down to her collarbone. He bit and sucked at the tender peachy skin, making sure to leave a dark and painful bruise. The heavy iron chain hung between them and she was struck by a memory of a calf that got loose in the village. She’d watched two of the stable boys chase after it with a rope, swinging it around the animal’s neck and pulling until it fell. Then she thought of the marks on her neck where he’d choked her, the smile on his face as he drowned her. She’d been sitting on her heels for too long, staying safe for too long and losing her dignity in the process. Surely, he must have thought she truly was broken, right from the start, a broken girl with no fight. He continued to kiss her neck, his hand moving to squeeze her breast painfully, pinching her nipple between two fingers until it was nearly numb, twisting and then letting go, the pain of the blood rushing back causing an unexpected cry, but she stayed still, her left hand wrapping around the chain.

“I bet you’re wet for me, finch. If I shove my fingers in your quim they would slip right out, covered with your cream wouldn’t they?” His other hand tangled into her hair holding her face still as he kissed the skin behind her ear, the bruises above her collar.

She moved quickly, grabbing the chain and slinging it over his head, attempting to pull as she stood. But it was just as he’d predicted. She didn’t have the strength to fight him and he simply ducked out of her grip and pulled the chain from her hands. Then, lifting a leg to kick her in the chest and down to the floor, he let the links rattle down into a pile beside her face. When she was on her back he stepped on her throat, the metal of her collar digging hard into her skin as he crouched down on one knee, his eyes bright and furious, the pupils blown wide, his teeth set in a snarl.

“I don’t want to kill you until I’ve had a chance to fuck that virgin cunt, but just know that this was your last chance.”

He stood then, letting her roll onto her side and curl into a ball, afraid of what would come next. She heard the tray of food rattle across the floor as he threw it, a bottle shattered into shards of glass against the hearth of the fire and she made herself smaller still, her eyes closed tight to block him out as he tore the room apart. For all she knew he was roaring and spitting fire, transformed into the dragon he was named for.

She was instantly sorry for attempting such a foolish act, and in her fear she began to find excuses for his cruelty. After all, he’d only been kissing her, he’d only been feeding her, trying to clean her. She should have left well enough alone, biding her time. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she felt his hand around her biceps, pulling her to stand in front of him, his grip bruising and painful around both arms. His white hair was wild, like flames sparking in all directions, his eyes an icy silver as his chest rose and fell drawing angry breaths.

_Being alive is worth more than your pride. You’ll find a way to survive._

“I’m sorry sir. I was afraid,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I won’t do it again.”

He went still and she lifted her hands to his face, holding it gently in her palms as she leaned in to kiss him, licking the seam of his closed mouth, pushing his lips open with her own. His hold on her softened by the tiniest of degrees and he slipped his tongue over hers, still allowing her to push against him, to hold him still, her kiss deepening, tongue sweeping into his mouth as her hands slid down to touch his chest, the thick scar rough beneath her hand. She broke away, lowering her gaze and said,

“Please forgive me.”

He stared at her and she could feel him relaxing, his muscles slackening beneath her touch, his breathing slowing. She watched him blink and exhale a sigh, furrowing his brow, his fingers no longer digging into her muscles.

“I forgive you this time, finch,” he pulled her close and kissed the crown of her head. “Clean all this up,” he said, waving a hand at the room he’d all but destroyed. “The chambermaids will come in the morning for the big stuff, but all the bits of glass and food, I want it gone.”

“Yes sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”

But before she could walk away from him completely, he’d grabbed her arm again, turning her around to face him.

“You aren’t fooling anyone, little _Ginny_ ,” he said, spitting out her name like it was poison. “You can only buy yourself so much time before I’ll have you impaled on my cock.” He held her wrist in his hand and guided her fingers to his erection, pressing her hand against him. She pulled away but stood close, lifting her eyes to find his glaring down at her. When she spoke, her voice was shaking with fear, but still she held his gaze.

“Of course I know that sir,” is all she said before he let her go.

Ginny nodded and stepped back from him, starting to right up the room, picking up shards of glass from the broken goblet, turning over the table beside the chair, straightening the rugs, putting books back on shelves. He sat on the edge of his bed and watched her all but float around the room, almost comfortable in her nakedness, glancing over her shoulder now and again to see where he was.

He was lost.

His original intention, from the moment he saw her take hold of the chain to strangle him, was to break her ribs then bend her over the bed and fuck her until her hips cracked, until her knees were bruised, until she all but fell from his cock, limp and broken unable to even beg for mercy. He’d wanted to punish her with unending pain. But then she’d touched his face. In fact he’d flinched beneath her fingers as if the gentle touch were a foreign concept to him, suspicious of her motives. And when she kissed him, her breasts pressed up against his chest, her tongue so soft and sweet tangled with his venomous one, he felt some of that red eyed rage melt away. To be sure it was replaced with fresh, raw lust, and he would still be the one to mark her, to make her bleed inside, but he was startled into near silence at what her touch had done. And that in itself made him angry. He wouldn’t allow her to control him with a single kind word, to manipulate him with her sweet talk and false flattery. Perhaps he’d underestimated her, taking her meek and gentle nature for pliability, stupidity even. But she was clever and he would have to be on guard.

The room was dark, no light lent from the moonless sky, and she worked silently in the encroaching shadows as he sat and drank wine, watching her body bend and stretch. In truth she was happy for the work, having a task, something to occupy her mind and push away thoughts of what her future held. She thought back to what he’d said to her as they sat in the chair only hours earlier.

_There is no one else but me._

The way he’d said it had been strange. It was as if he sensed her embarrassment, her humiliation at being naked in front of the other servants and was trying to soothe her, to direct her gaze and her thoughts, reminding her of who she belonged to, letting her know that in that ownership came a certain amount of safety. In truth, she knew that if any of those chambermaids had opened their mouths to make fun of her or belittle her position they would have suffered wickedly and she thought back to the girls in the dungeon with her, laughing at her fate, wondering if they were laughing still.

She’d seen the King’s concubine in the throne room when they were first brought in, when she clung to Hermione and Luna, hiding from the gaze of the Dark Prince while they were inspected. Back in the village they had books, fairy tales and romances, sweeping histories and tales of war, and she’d heard about the concubines, the women kept for companionship and comfort, serving at the pleasure of the court. But she’d expected to see a woman battered and cowering in fear, a woman clawing at the stones to find a way out, running at any given chance. Instead the girl had looked almost…serene. Her gown was modest, and she sat on a comfortable cushion at the King’s feet, her head on his knee as he stroked her hair, his fingers occasionally running down the slim column of her neck, or the line of her jaw. And when he touched her, Ginny watched her eyelids flutter, her chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh. Did the King love her? Did he treat her as cherished lover instead of a pet? And if the King was capable of treating a woman with tenderness, could there be hope for the son?

She worked for two hours before he stood and cleared his throat

“That’s enough. I’m tired,” he said. Without a word of direction she walked over to him, standing demurely, her hands folded in front of her, hiding the treasure between her legs. Draco poured another glass of the blood red wine, although she noticed he was already wavering a bit on his feet, his cheeks flushed pink with intoxication. _Everything is a clue_. He had a weakness for wine. But instead of drinking it he handed the glass over to her. In all her life she’d had wine only once, at a wedding for the first daughter of the village leader. There had been a cask opened and everyone held up a glass, drinking to the happy couple. She remembered it being syrupy, dense with flavor, but almost as bitter as vinegar, burning her tongue. Given a choice she’d much prefer ale, or frankly, water. However, the dark look on his face let her know it wouldn’t be wise to refuse him.

“It will help you sleep,” he said with a shrug, watching her sip from his goblet. “And it keeps you warm.”

It was much better wine than she remembered tasting at the wedding. This was rich and velvety, tasting like berries and herbs, settling in a warm pool in her stomach. The Prince was staring at her as she drank, and after two or three sips she handed the goblet back, bowing her head and already feeling a bit fuzzy and light.

“Thank you sir,” she said. “It’s delicious.”

“Go and get some rest, pretty finch,” he said, his voice low, the words slurred together.

She made her way to her space on the floor and he followed, clicking the chain into place, tugging at it to make sure it was secure then brushing his fingers over her nipples before walking away. Having successfully scared off all of the chambermaids, he walked around the room, extinguishing each oil lamp and putting a grate in front of the fireplace, sending the whole room in to darkness but for the glowing embers that rippled with dying heat. In the dark she heard him crawl into his bed and stretch out; the low rumbling moan he released raising goosebumps along her arms. For a long while he was silent, only the wind and distant crashing waves lulling her to sleep. But before she could disappear completely into the safe world of her dreams he whispered to her in the dark,

“This is your last reprieve. We’ll take care of that nasty virginity of yours in the morning.”

He was quiet after that, but Ginny simply lay back on the furs, noticing for the first time that his ceiling was painted black and dotted with stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find sometimes that I have a big elaborate plan for a story and then the character sort of says "nah, Imma do something else". Jerk.


	7. Black Silk and White Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is your explicit-content-violence-non-con warning.

She woke before him but stayed still, grateful for the few moments of peace as he continued to sleep, sprawled out on his stomach, one leg poking out from the green and black sheets. Ever since she was a child she’d had a bad habit of staring. There was something about men’s bodies that enthralled her. It wasn’t the obvious things, the parts that made them different, but the way they were built, like pieces of architecture, all flat planes and long lines. She loved the angle of their shoulders, the broad backs and chests and rippled stomachs. Under the wrinkled sheet she could see the pale skin of his hip sloping down to his leg, rough with hair. His thigh muscles were long and lean like his arms, his sides, the thick tendons in his neck. In sleep his face was far softer, long light lashes hiding those shining cold eyes. His jaw was slack, lips fallen open. He looked much younger with his hair tousled, no furrow in his brow, still frowning but not so much angry as sad. He groaned and moved in his sleep, his whole body undulating like a snake from toe to shoulder, a rearranging of his muscles.

She blinked and then he was staring at her, his eyes piercing through her before they narrowed and she watched his lips spread into that wicked smile that had made her blood run cold the night before.

“I was dreaming about you,” he said, his voice still gravely with sleep and drunkenness. “You can’t even imagine the things you were doing to me.”

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair and she looked at the floor, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, feeling very lonely and very small, her teeth chattering not only from the cold but her fear. He’d cleaned her, he’d fed her, he’d locked them together with no interruptions and he’d promised her it would be today.

When he stood to approach, she took her position, sitting up on her knees, every muscle taut with tension. But he only bent down and kissed her temple and patted her head before shuffling away, cracking his neck to each side and stretching his back. He bent over the cold bath and splashed water on his face and through his hair, then picked up the pitcher of wine and drank three long gulps right from it, not bothering with a glass. Keeping her head bowed she raised her eyes, noticing that his cock was already hard. It stood away from his body, thick and dark, bobbing as he walked. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“You don’t talk very much,” he said, opening the black lacquer chest and rummaging through it, pulling out long strips of leather and silk and throwing them in a pile on the floor. “You haven’t even asked what I’m going to do to you, or whether you can stop it. You haven’t tried to strike a bargain with me even once. Oh please sir,” he said, mimicking a voice higher and breathier than hers. “Please I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt me sir.”

Before closing the chest he pulled out a long, flexible stick with a long tab of leather at the end. A crop. She’d seen it used in training horses, breaking them. Before she could even register what he was doing he’d slapped it against the wall beside her head, making her nearly jump out of her skin.

“There she is,” he said with a grin, crouching in front of her, his body radiating heat while she shivered. “I thought you’d just given up. I knew there was more to you than one terrible escape attempt, right?”

He ran a hand over her cheek, his thumb brushing across her mouth, pulling down on her bottom lip. When she opened up he slipped his thumb inside, over her tongue.

“Suck,” he said, regarding her like some sort of newly discovered creature, testing her abilities, observing her behaviors.

She shut her eyes and closed her lips around his thick thumb, sucking on it once, tentatively.

“Keep going, finch,” he said, brushing his other fingers over her cheek. “Suck until I tell you to stop.”

When she sealed her lips around him again there were tears in her eyes, puddled up and wetting her lashes, but not daring to fall. She suckled harder and he groaned in pleasure, thrusting his thumb in and out of her warm, wet mouth, pushing in far enough to make her gag, falling forward against his chest. He laughed and pulled away, wiping his wet hand off on her breast.

“You’re not ready for that yet,” he said, unfastening her chain and pulling her to her feet.

The movement made her tears finally fall, one of them dropping onto the back of his hand. When he turned to look at her, she held his gaze.

“Please,” she said, her voice little more than a breath. Her first idea had been to stay silent, but now she wondered if maybe he’d be moved by honesty. “I’ve never done any of this. I have no idea what you want from me. I’m trying to behave. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Oh darling,” he said, setting his lips in a dramatic pout before spinning her around and bending her roughly over the chest. “When you’re with me, it will always hurt.”

He worked quickly, stretching out each of her arms and tying them tightly to the thick tree trunk bed posts. She tugged and twisted at the silken ropes, but it only served to pull the knots tighter, the fabric cutting into her wrists. When he reached down to spread her legs she kicked and thrashed at him, bucking like a wild horse until he snapped the crop across the tops of her thighs, leaving a short red stripe. She screamed, falling forward, her cheek pressed to the mattress and he bent himself over her, brushing the hair from her face. The tone of his voice let her know he was angry.

“If you don’t want to be hurt, stop fighting me and stand still.”

She squirmed and bucked beneath the weight of his body, his cock digging into the small of her back. He pinned her down until she couldn’t breathe. Kicking her legs apart with his own he reached down to run his fingers between her legs, angry to find her tightly closed and painfully dry. Growling in disappointment he crouched behind her and tied down her ankles, her legs spread wide enough that she could barely keep her balance, her body tipping forward against the foot of the bed.

“You look beautiful like this, finch,” he said, dragging the end of the crop across her skin, down the length of her spine, up between her spread legs. “Black silk and white skin. Just wait until you’re all covered in stripes and blooms.”

He swung the crop down onto her ass and she cried out, wrapping her fingers around the silks that held her in place, her nails digging into her own palms. She felt his mouth against her skin, kissing the tender flesh where he’d delivered the blow, and then another white hot sting burst on the opposite side. It surprised her how quickly the pain faded, an intense explosion that dissipated in mid air, blinding her for a moment then fading into a dull, throbbing sensation that went right to her center, an ache that couldn’t be relieved. No, not couldn’t …wouldn’t. She wouldn’t ask for him to help her. The crop came down again, and again. And again he kissed the bruised spots, this time dragging his tongue over them, almost soothing the heat of the sting.

“Look how pink she gets on this snow white skin,” he whispered, almost to himself, before delivering three more quick blows to the tops her thighs, the last one drawing a sound from her that he’d heard before…just the night before…when she’d sat down the bath. 

He’d wanted to make sure she was at least a bit prepared before he split her open, but the sight of the welts rising on her skin, the sound of her crying muffled against the bedcovers nearly sent him over the edge all on its own and he was angry that she would make him wait. As he ran his fingers between her legs he was surprised to find the tiniest hint of warmth, the first drops of slick arousal just beginning. He bent over her back, stretching his arms out to cover hers, pressing every part of himself against her, absorbing the trembling, the fear, the salty tears. When she begged him to stop he could feel her words in his chest and only groaned in response, pushing his hips against hers.

“Don’t touch me! Stop!”

He didn’t move for a moment and she went still, trying to even her breathing, trying to prepare herself. Then he brushed the long hair from her face, sweeping it over her shoulder, licking up the side of her cheek.

“You’re getting wet, finch,” he whispered, rubbing her gently, spreading her open, smearing what little wetness she gave before pushing his finger inside, licking at the shell of her ear as he pumped into her.

Then he touched something, a spot somewhere between her legs and she felt her whole body jolt, a combination heat and pressure, the air flying from her lungs in a whine. Her reaction made him chuckle and she tensed her body again, trying to resist him. It was her reaction that excited him. She didn’t want to respond, she didn’t want to be wet for him.

“Stop, please…” she tried to beg, barely able to move under the weight of his body. And suddenly he was off of her, cold air across her back.

“As you wish, finch. But you’ll regret it.”

Without warning he pulled out his finger and pushed his cock deep inside her, the length and width of it stretching her to the point of pain, forcing her up on her toes as she screamed into the furs, bowing her back in an effort to pull away. He pulled out completely and slammed into her again, his fingers digging into her hips as he sunk himself to the root, grinding against her ass, being sure to put pressure on the rapidly darkening bruises from the crop.

“I was trying to make it better for you,” he growled, pulling out and finding the slightest traces of red streaking his shaft. Thrusting in again he continued. “Maybe next time you won’t be so ashamed to take what you so desperately wanted.”

After the third push it became easier, her body had acclimated and she let out a breath, trying to relax her core, trying to stay calm. Draco wrapped his arm around her, pulling her against his chest as he pushed in again, his long fingers closed tight around her throat.

“You’ll get off easily this time,” he whispered breathlessly in her ear, his words laced with disappointment. “Because I’ve wanted to break you open so badly, I’ve been desperate to come.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as he stuck two of his fingers deep in her mouth. They tasted musky and salty and she realized they had been between her legs.

“When I put something in your mouth you suck it, you slow bitch,” he said, pushing in deep her to make her gag. “Do it.”

His pace of fucking grew more frantic, erratic and painful. Even as she tried to suck the fingers clean she was crying out in pain, begging for him to stop, knowing he was deaf to her cries. Pushing in for one final thrust, he held her tightly against him, a breath stuttering from his mouth, hot against her ear. Deep inside her body she felt a burst of heat, then a relief of pressure as he slid out of her, letting her fall forward against her bonds. Her ankles were released and without warning he cut through the silk straps and she fell against the black chest before sliding down to the rug.

She crawled away towards her space on the floor, her insides throbbing with pain, her thighs sticky with his seed and her blood, her hips and buttocks raw and bruised. Laying on her side she pulled her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, not wanting to cry while he was near.

What had he done to her? The pain, she’d expected. In fact she’d been unable to sleep wondering what it would be like when filled her, how it would tear her, bruise her. But the other…how had he touched her to make her tremble, seeing sparks, her heart racing with the need for more. When he’d pulled his hand away she’d nearly begged him, the Prince who’d beaten her, to come back, to touch her there again and let her feel it. But it was wrong. It was wrong to feel pleasure from the pain he was inflicting.

“Look at me,” he said, and she could tell he was standing over her. When she didn’t move she felt a stream of cold liquid splashing along her arm, dark and fruity. 

She turned over and found him pouring out the pitcher of wine over her body, his face nearly bored, no evidence that he’d just been raping her except for the hint of color in his cheeks. He crouched down and she scrambled to her knees.

“You know how to behave and yet you always hesitate to do it,” he said, pulling up her hand and licking the wine from her skin, the inside of her palm, up her forearm to her shoulder. “And then you end up getting hurt. Why not just be the good girl I knew you were when I first saw you? This could be a whole lot…easier for you.”

“I thought you wanted a fight. I thought you wanted fear,” she said, knowing that simply uttering the wrong words, making the wrong sounds could make her bleed.

Tipping his head to the side, he ran two of his fingers up the inside of her thigh, wet with blood and wine, the remnants of his seed.

“I wanted you, I wanted you the moment I saw you,” he said, painting a curling, stylized D on the middle of her chest. And although it barely left a mark, she could feel it burning against her skin like a brand, the touch of his fingers, the way his eyes bored a hole into hers. “And you were afraid of me. You could barely look at me. What was it?”

“What?”

The room was cavernous, and empty but for the two of them and yet still they were whispering, his face hovering only inches from hers.

“What was it that frightened you so much?”

“I’ve heard what happens to the girls who come here, the spoils of war. I saw that girl on the floor next to your father. And you aren’t…”

She bit down on her bottom lip. He was staring at her, and the weight of it took the air from her lungs. His long, slim fingers ran over the links of her chain and all she could think of was how he’d touched her, a feather light brush between her legs that nearly melted her to the ground. His lips spread into a wide, knowing smile.

“What are you thinking about, finch? I’ve never seen a girl go so red without a tongue in her cunt.”

She gasped and he tugged at her chain, pulling her face to his. He traced the outline of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, teasing her with kisses until she opened, letting him inside. The kiss he gave was gentle, massaging her tongue with his own, exploring her mouth, nipping at her lips. Then his hand was between her legs, two fingers running between the slick, hot folds of her sex. They were far more heated and slippery than before. Ginny shuddered at his touch and he pulled away. She closed her eyes to hide from his stare.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t make you feel good? Don’t make you wet?”

She opened her eyes to see him sucking his fingers clean, the sight of it embarrassing her even more.

“Oh, I see now. You don’t want to want a snake like me,” he whispered. “You don’t want to admit that I make you drip with need. But let me assure you of something little finch,” he said holding tight to the chain on her collar. “We’re quite young, you and I. And your life with me is going to be long and filled with pain, a perfect reflection of my own. If you’re able to find any bit of pleasure in it, any piece of comfort, I advise you take as much as you can, because now that I’ve had you once, be assured that I’ll never let you go.”

The chambermaids were allowed back into the room and worked through the day to replace the stained rugs and restock the firewood. New water was brought and Draco bathed alone, dressing again all in black for a day with his father. When he wasn’t in a mind to fuck, Ginny was all but invisible, and if she was honest with herself, she was grateful for it, simply withdrawing into the corner of her sleeping space to watch the activity around her, reflecting on what he’d said.

Before leaving her alone he brought a bowl of water and a bottle of oil in front of her. She stared, open mouthed as he carefully and thoroughly washed her hands, soaking them in the warm water, rubbing down each finger with a light, softly scented oil then drying them with a cloth and folding them and placing them in her lap. He ordered her up on her knees and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“I know more about you than you think. Your blush and your sounds and your words give you away, pretty finch. You’re aching right now, and it has nothing to do with your bruises. Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone,” he said, lifting one of her hands to his nose. “I’ll know if you do.”

He dropped her hand back into position and stood up, smoothing the panels of his jacket before walking out the door.


	8. A Building Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my promise to you...that the plot will return next timel. I promise there is one.

Once he’d left, a young chambermaid came in with a tray. There was a thick slice of bread and a bowl of soup next to a pitcher of cool water. She placed it on the floor in front of Ginny and told her she had half an hour to finish. It only took her five minutes, and finally having a full stomach, her headache started to fade and she was able to go back to sleep.

_When she was younger, they would all meet at the pond at the edge of the village. Harry and Ron would take off their shirts, she and Hermione, sometimes Luna would strip down to their muslin slips and they would swim for hours under the hot sun listening to the locusts buzz in the trees. As they got older it became a bit more complicated, the girls hiding beneath the surface to hide the shadow of their breasts, the boys hiding what happened when they saw the shadow of their breasts. The games they used to play, dunking one another beneath the surface and throwing each other off the shore became loaded with intention, Ron holding onto Hermione for far longer than necessary, Harry pinning Luna to his chest to keep her from running away, anything to excuse a boy touching a girl, skin touching skin, to hint at a future they barely understood. It wasn’t a matter of love, or pairing off, or soul mates discovering one another…it was exploration, and they were all boiling over with need for it._

_And Hermione’s mother had been right. After Harry kissed her over the stone fence, he’d made other, better offers, doing more complicated chores in exchange for kissing sessions behind the willow trees. She was happy to oblige, liking the feel of his tongue warring with hers, of her back pressed against the rough bark of the tree, his stomach touching hers. Before long his hands moved from her shoulders to her waist, his thumb brushing along the underside of her breast. Ginny’s eyes popped open as he continued to kiss her, wondering if she should tell him to stop. When she didn’t he moved higher, closing his hand over her breast, his thumb brushing her hardening nipple over the fabric of her dress. Right or wrong, it felt too good to stop._

_Beside them there was a rustling in the tall grass; something crunching over dried leaves. Ginny froze, about to tell him to stop when he slammed his hand over her mouth, pushing her against the tree hard enough that she saw stars. She could taste salt and earth on the skin of his palm._

_“Shhhh,” he hissed, his breath hot in her ear, their bodies pressed impossibly close._

_And suddenly she felt light headed. She was overwhelmed by that throbbing, the pulsing heat between her legs. And now the muscles deep inside were clenching tight, her scalp prickling. A fox emerged from the grass and leapt off past the trees. Harry let go of her mouth and stepped away._

_“You all right?” He asked, smiling as if nothing had happened. “You look flushed.”_

_She smiled, regaining her wits and smoothing her skirts._

_“I’m fine. You’re a good kisser,” she said, but it seemed odd that she hadn’t felt that heat until he’d stopped._

She woke up alone. There was a fresh fire roaring in the fireplace and the oil lamps were lit, but otherwise the room was empty. When she moved to sit up her thighs slipped against each other and she felt a jolt of arousal when she squeezed them together. She’d been dreaming, and although she couldn’t remember the details, it left her feeling deliciously languid and warm on waking.

Draco told her not to touch herself, even going to the trouble to set up a trap, putting scented oil on her hands that he’d look for when came back. He needn’t have bothered. She’d tried it once when she was younger, being frazzled and unable to sleep, her whole body jumpy and hot, every thought in her mind of Harry’s mouth on hers, or the color of his eyes, or the heat of his skin. Her hand had slipped under the covers of her bed to where she felt the deepest ache, a whimper escaping her lips when she stroked between the surprisingly slippery folds of her pussy. Hermione had found her in the barn the next morning and gave her an uncomfortable and humiliating speech about how inappropriate it was to give in to those urges, how it was sinful and selfish, and that her body was meant for her husband one day and not for…she’d struggled to find a word and decided on ‘mindless pleasure’. Ginny looked up to her, saw her as an older sister and a teacher as well as a friend, and she trusted her judgment, vowing never doing it again.

It was already evening when he came back, but he was in a better mood than he had been the day before, more distracted and sullen than angry, barely glancing in her direction when he walked into the room. For a moment she wondered if he’d leave her alone, eat his supper and go to sleep. Still she sat up on her knees, not wanting to give him an excuse to punish her.

“My father wants to know how you’re faring,” he said with a half smile. “He’s quite worried for your welfare around me. He wants me to bring you for inspection soon, to make sure I haven’t flayed you alive.” His voice was thick with bitter sarcasm and if she knew him better she’d think he was hurt by the accusation. “What a soulless monster I must be.”

He reached down and pulled her to stand, both of his gloved hands tangled in her hair, holding her face close to his.

“Anything you’d like to give me?” He asked, his voice quiet, soothing almost. She leaned forward and kissed him, opening her mouth to him instantly, twisting her tongue with his. He held her hair tight kissing her as if he could pull the air from her lungs. He broke the kiss, running his fingers along her jaw line before murmuring, “Good girl,” against her mouth.

She watched silently as he walked away and methodically took off the pieces of his black suit; the jacket, the gloves, the heavy soled boots, his tension seeming to melt away as more of him was revealed. Did he ever leave the room without covering every inch of his skin? Was that why he was so pale? Down to just his trousers he moved to pour some wine, drinking half of it before looking back at her and filling it again. Her eyes were drawn to the markings on his skin again, looking closer at a complicated pattern over his heart; a burning torch encased in ice. It looked so real that she wanted to run her fingers over it, to see if it was cool to the touch. He held the wine up to her mouth, tipping it up between her lips and she drank, a few drops falling down to her chin that he bent down and licked away. As soon as she swallowed he fed her more, holding firm to the back of her head to let her know she couldn’t refuse.

“Did you behave, finch?” he asked pouring it between her lips until she gagged and coughed, the front of her naked body streaked with dark rivulets that she couldn’t drink in time. “Or were you fucking yourself as soon as I left the room?”

She shook her head, sputtering. “No sir,” she said, holding up her hands.

He pulled her fingertips to his nose and then his mouth, sucking each finger between his lips.

“Such self control,” he said, running his own fingertip between her legs and finding her deliciously slick and warm, moreso than he expected.

She did her best to keep her face neutral, but he saw the flush in her cheeks and was determined to drive her over the edge. Was it possible she’d never felt it before? He found the tight bundle of nerves nestled in her folds and circled it with one finger, making her knees buckle as she stumbled against his chest. Pulling his hand up he coated her lips with her own wetness before slipping the finger in over her tongue. She tried to back away, tried to keep her mouth closed, but he was far stronger and easily won the battle. When she’d sucked his finger clean he pulled it out, reaching down again, only to have her clamp her legs tightly together, closing him out.

Draco glared at her desperate and silently begging face, his frown deep with disappointment. But she couldn’t bear it! She’d rather he hit her with the crop again, hold her under the water again, anything but touch that spot again. If he touched it again she’d fall apart, she was sure. Fall apart for him.

“I’m losing my patience with you,” he said, his voice calm but determined. “Open your legs.”

She did as he asked and he stroked her again, slower, deeper, two fingers slipping inside her hot core, the heel of his hand massaging her clit. Again she felt as if she were going to fall, her legs trembling as he curled his fingers inside her, thrusting slowly.

“I can’t…please…I can’t stand…” she threw her arms around his neck and he sunk his teeth into her throat.

His fingers worked faster, scissoring against each other and Ginny was whimpering into his hair, clinging to him as if he held her life in his hands. She didn’t care anymore what she was supposed to be doing, what the right choice was, she needed his hand, deeper and harder, her body knew there was something more, some precipice to fall from. Like an animal she rutted against him seeking the friction, the pressure he could give.

“You’ve never come before have you?” He chuckled, running his tongue around the shell of her ear. “I’m going to give you your first, aren’t I?”

“Please….please sir, h-harder.”

His hand slowed, his fingers slipping away, and she felt lost, empty and aching. She watched him suck his fingers clean, her eyes wide and wanting. What had she said wrong?

“Why did…sir, please!”

He pushed her away, letting her fall against the wall and began undoing his trousers, the bulge of his erection obvious, straining against the fabric. Without realizing what she was doing, her hands slipped down over her stomach, her fingers threading through the tangle of red hair at her mound. In an instant he had her pinned against the wall, her wrists high above her head as he pressed against her, his hard cock trapped between them.

“Don’t you dare,” he said, unaffected by her pitiful whining. “No one makes you come but me. Your body is mine now…not yours. If you want to come you ask me.”

“I want…I want…” she squirmed beneath his grip, trying to find relief by bucking against his leg, but only held tighter, the stones cutting into her back.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice smooth and warm. “Tell me little finch and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want to come,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Please.”

“No girl, try again. What do you want?”

“I want you to make me come,”

He smiled wide, his eyes flashing in the low light, and pulled away from her, throwing her easily onto the bed on her back, spreading her legs. As badly as she needed release, her body still hurt from his attack the day before, inside and out and she panicked at the thought of him inside her again. She covered her eyes with her arm and he pulled it away.

“Look at me or I’ll tie you down. You’re going to come on my cock or not at all,” he said, pushing inside her with one slow thrust. “And you’re going to watch me while you do it.”

Her back arched off the bed, her mouth open as she gasped for air. Already he could feel her insides rippling, pulling him in and he started pumping, his hips snapping hard against her open thighs. Her hands fisted the blankets, stretched out to at her sides has he grabbed her hips, slamming her back against him as he thrust forward.

“And you can tell your friends that the Prince who attacked you, who beat you and kept you chained to the wall was the one who made you come. The only one to make you come.”

He fucked into her harder, his pale chest covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair damp, hanging in front of his face. Deep in her belly she felt a growing coil of heat and he slowed his pace, pumping in

to her as deeply as he could and grinding against her entrance. He knew it was happening before she did, the flush blooming across her chest, her eyelids fluttering. “That’s it, my filthy little whore, come for me. Come for Prince Draco,” he said, reaching his thumb down to find her clit. “Scream when you do. I want to hear it.”

She did as asked. There was no other sound to be made as the climax ripped through her. It was like a storm, a flash of lighting and then the electric time waiting for the thunder after. He thrust in hard and pressed her clit and her vision flashed white, her back arching and stiffening as a wave of pulsing heat washed through her, rippling pleasure rending her unable to speak, unable to move. Never in her life had she felt such pure bliss. He pulled roughly on her hair and she opened her eyes, staring into his bright and blazing silver stare, his mouth fallen open as he pushed into her faster and faster before collapsing over her body, his forehead pressed to her shoulder.

She was instantly overcome with a wave of emotions she couldn’t sort. She was sleepy and content, nearly at peace, while at the same time weighed down by a hideous guilt, shame at having allowed it to happen, anger at her body for betraying her, letting him rend such a feeling from her so easily. Nothing made sense, and there was no one to help her back onto the path. She was left alone with a madman intent on twisting her mind, and so far he’d succeeded at every turn.

“It feels good doesn’t it?” He said, sliding down her body to lay his head on her stomach. She could feel his seed dripping out between her legs, his sweat slicked over her skin. “It helps you forget.” She didn’t move as he kissed her belly, the hills of her hip bones, his hands running over her breasts.

“I hate you,” was all she said as he found his place again, his cheek against her ribs where he could hear her heartbeat returning to normal.

“Of course you do little finch,” he said, lazily lacing his fingers into hers. “I would never expect anything less.”


	9. Bleeding

She hated him. And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? After all, she was only there to be fucked and used, a whipping post for his pent up anger, the pretty red stripes showing up as bright as paint on her flesh. There was no way for her to be anything else. That was a life not meant for him. He was a prince, not a knight in shining armor.

She may have hated him, but he would never forget her face when the climax overtook her. It was filled with such surprise and delicious agony, her legs squeezing his sides as her eyes locked on his, glittering with life, a spark he hadn’t seen in them before. She would never admit it, but he’d given her what she needed, and he was sure that she would beg for it again.

Afterwards she’d fallen asleep beneath him on the bed, her body softening, arms relaxed, he could hear her heart behind her ribs, slow and strong. While she was out he looked at the pale skin on her forearm, the blue veins beneath like the shadows of naked trees on snow. He ran his fingers along the length of them, up to her chest, forking out like lightning across her heavy breasts, milky white and plump. When her eyes were closed he could be soft with her, running his tongue around the peak of her nipple, kissing the bruised and broken skin around her collar. She moaned and squirmed, reacting to his touch and he smiled. She said she hated him.

But he knew that would change.

He’d sent her back to the floor when he was done with her, watching her pout and lick her wounds in the corner, her arms wrapped around her knees as he ate. The next morning she was still curled into a ball, facing away from him, the dark chain draped over her body like a snake. As he rose to go wake her to surprise her with some delicious torture, he heard her sniffling up tears, crying once again.

“What is it now, finch?” He asked, kicking lightly at her back with his bare foot.

Her tears angered him as he’d been particularly kind to her the night before -letting her lay in his bed, letting her keep her arms free, letting her come at his hand, and yet here she was crying instead of jumping to her feet to thank him. He rolled her onto her back and crouched beside her. The look on her face wasn’t one of sadness or even fear, but pinched in pain, her brow furrowed deeply and her hand clutched her stomach as she hissed through her teeth.

“Leave me alone,” she snapped at him, her voice carrying far more venom than before, eyes flashing with flecks of green. “Just leave me alone.”

“Are you sick? What’s wrong with you?”

For a moment he felt everything stop, the breath in his lungs, the blood surging through his heart. Had they been right? Did he have so much darkness in him that his touch alone could kill her, seeping through her veins like poison? He tried to hide his panic, grabbing the pitcher of wine and holding it to her lips, his hand behind her head. Surprisingly, she drank it eagerly, her eyes tightly closed against some invisible torment. Then, laying her head back on the rug she looked up at him.

“I’m bleeding.”

If she weren’t in such agony from her menses she would have laughed at how he sprang back from where she lay, as if the curse of being a woman were catching, that suddenly he’d be twisted up and nauseated with cramps, his head aching, his whole body tired. She’d gulped down the wine in hopes that it would make her a little bit drunk, that she would fall back to sleep, the pain deep in her womb dulled for a while. But he’d only given her a sip or two before pulling it away. Now he looked at her with such disgust she wondered if maybe this would be her real reprieve, if he would be afraid or disgusted enough to leave her alone.

Without another word he went to his cupboard and quickly pulled on a pair of trousers, not bothering to fasten them closed completely, then tugged a black linen tunic over his head, rolling the sleeves down to his wrists. He pulled her up from the floor by her arm and unlocked her chain, wrapping it around his hand and walking to the door, still barefoot, his hair tousled in all directions, decidedly unregal.

“What a happy reunion you’ll have with your friends,” he said, pulling her behind him. “Four days. They can take care of you for four days and then I come back for you.” He opened the door to his chambers and she froze, unwilling to take another step. “What? This bleeding renders you unable to walk?”

She didn’t want to ruin her chances of getting away from him, of seeing Hermione and Luna again, but she would not walk through the castle naked, past dozens of prying eyes, noble or otherwise, pointing and laughing at her battered body.

“Please sir. Please don’t make me go out there like this. Let me have something. Just until we get….wherever you’re taking me.”

She was shivering, standing in the middle of the floor with her arms crossed over her chest. The welts and wounds from his crop were still tender and dark, black and purple at the edges, her chest and back covered with bites and yellowing bruises. No, he didn’t want them looking at her either. He didn’t want anyone else thinking they could have her, that they could mark her like he did, bringing the color to her skin. He hadn’t left her to be trained as a concubine because he hadn’t wanted another man touching her, not ever.

He went back to his cupboard and pulled out a black silk shirt, throwing it at her to put it on. It was too big and hung to just above her knees, smelling of leather and wine, musky, spicy bath oil and sweat. She was ashamed that in such a short time the smell had become so familiar.

“You’re going back to the dungeon,” he said simply. “You’ll stay with the other broken concubines until I come back for you.”

He called them dungeons, but the concubine quarters were considerably nicer than the dank, windowless room she and her friends had been kept in when they were first brought to the castle. These chambers were on the first floor, with windows streaming in sunshine and sea air, a fireplace and two neat rows of beds.

“Pansy,” Draco said to the girl posted beside the door. “I’ve been meaning to ask you , do you make the other whores call you ‘your highness’ or would you rather just put that part of your life behind you now?”

He laughed at her pursed lips, her fists clenching at her sides. Part of him dared her to say something back, to spit on him, slap him so he could show Ginny just how smart she was to stay quiet. But the dark haired concubine just took the red haired slave by the arm, leading her into the quarters, shutting the door in his face.

 

“Are you bleeding?” Pansy asked her.

Ginny recognized the girl from the first day in the throne room. She was the concubine at the King’s feet. Had she once been a princess like Draco said? She couldn’t imagine falling so far, and being reminded of it every day. Pansy lead her over to a bed and pulled back the covers, smoothing them down.

“You can talk,” she said, petting Ginny’s red hair, gone dull and frizzy since being captured. It needed washing and brushing, her neck was irritated and would need a soothing ointment. “he’s not in control of you in here, girl.”

“He lets me talk,” Ginny blurted out, suddenly feeling a bit defensive. She wasn’t some mute dog, unable to take care of herself. She’d been locked in a room with Draco for two days and had come out no worse than any of the other girls in the room. She just had cramps and wanted some poppy tea, or a hot bath.

“I think some of your friends are here. They’re staying in the next room, unbroken slaves in training. You’re here in the bleeding room,” Pansy explained, rolling her eyes at the dramatics surrounding something that happened every month. “They tuck us away in here so they can pretend it doesn’t happen.”

For the first time in nearly a week, Ginny smiled. She’d wanted to close down, to withdraw into herself and her pain, riding out the hours until he came back to torture her, but the concubine made her feel a little more comfortable, more human.

“Anyway, lay down and I’ll go find your friends. Once you’ve had some tea I’ll draw you a bath and maybe we’ll find you a new gown. Of course he’d send you down here marked with his scent,” she said, picking at the edge of the shirt Ginny wore. “Like we’re a pack of dogs.”


	10. The King's Concubine

Lucius watched Draco as they sat together in the throne room hearing petitions from the local citizens. The harvest season was ending, and with it came harsher weather, day long storms that wreaked havoc on the land. Crops were lost, animals dying off. If they weren’t asking for extensions on their taxes, they were asking for loans to repair barns or replace cattle, or higher prices for wool and beef. It wasn’t unusual for Draco to be distracted. He’d been in the throne room drunk or hungover on countless occasions, sat next to his father disheveled and smelling of sex, but today he sat at the edge of the throne, his knee bobbing with nervous energy, his stormy grey eyes glazed as he stared out over the balcony. Once the citizens had all been heard the servant girls came in, bringing food and wine for the King and his son. Lucius had asked specifically for three girls that he knew had caught Draco’s eye in the past, one that had been in his bed. And yet he barely looked in their direction, only making eye contact when Astoria poured his wine, his upper lip twitching into a snarl, but nothing more.

“I thought you’d have your girl with you today, Ginny is it?” Lucius said, keeping the observation light. “Let her get a little fresh air.”

“Finch,” Draco said, still not looking in his direction. “I call her Finch. And she’s bleeding.” He sat with his chin resting in his hand, still looking out over the balcony at the waves crashing against the cliffs.

The churning water rolled forward angrily again and again, pushing at the rocks, their spray like an icy explosion firing high into the air and yet the cliffs hadn’t changed. They looked exactly the same as they had when he was a child, walking the rocky beaches with his mother, fighting invisible dragons with sticks of driftwood while she told them stories of their family’s history. He wondered if she knew even then that she would be abandoning him, filling his mind with as many memories as she could while she had time.

“What?” Lucius was more insistent now, a hint of anger behind his words. “What do you mean? This is why I told you I wanted to see her Draco, to make sure she –“

“BLEEDING,” Draco called out, loud enough to echo through the empty hall. He finally turned away from the water and stared at the King. “Like every other whore in the castle, she bleeds every month and I don’t feel like dealing with it.”

He stood then, thrusting his goblet into the hands of the servant girl that stood beside him.

“If you want to check on her, go down to the concubine’s chambers and find her there. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about her unending nightmare at my hands.”

He stormed out of the hall and Lucius sat back on his throne, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

****

“You’re the Prince’s girl!”

Ginny heard the voice before opening her eyes. She’d been asleep for hours after taking a strong dose of poppy tea. It not only had soothed the pain in her womb, but the bruises and aches in her bones and the constantly painful, contradictory thoughts in her head. She wondered briefly if it was something Draco would ever bring to her, give to her, but the thought quickly dissolved. When she did open her eyes, she saw two girls sitting on the bed next to hers, one wearing a black gown with a copper belt and collar, the other wearing the gray dresses that the other chambermaids wore. She thought perhaps one of them had been the water bearer that had filled their bath the day before.

“Yes,” Ginny answered, not wanting to sit up, happy in her floaty altered state on a soft mattress under a warm blanket.

“Katie said she saw the two of you fucking in the bathtub,” the slave girl said, her smile wicked and wide. “You sure spread your legs in a hurry, didn’t you?”

“Leave her alone,” the chambermaid said. “It’s not like she would have a choice.”

“You’re mistaken anyway. He put me in the bath to wash me,” Ginny drawled, her voice still dreamy and slurred. “He kissed me. His tongue was in my mouth.” She was surprised to find that upon saying it, her body shivered, the tiny muscles between her legs quickly clenched and released. But just as quickly as she felt it, it was gone.

“Kissed you?” The smug slave’s voice was much different now.

Ginny sat up in her bed, pulling the blanket up to wrap around her chest, looking at the girl in the black gown. Through clearer eyes she could see that the girl had suffered quite a bit of abuse. Her cheek bone was bruised and swollen in a crescent shape around her bloodshot eye, her lip split and bleeding. Like Ginny, her neck and chest was covered in bites and bruises, but there were also shallow cuts, some nearly healed, some dotted with dark, dried blood. Suddenly she felt the need to explain herself, to assure the other girl.

“He took my virginity. He bit my throat and tried to drown me. He makes me sleep on the floor with a chain around my neck and he won’t let me eat unless he feeds me from his hand. A kiss doesn’t make up for that,” she spat at them, feeling as if she were a mouse cornered by cats. “Leave me alone, I don’t feel well and what the Prince does to me is none of your business.”

The girls stood and left her to rest and Ginny flopped back onto the thick mattress, wondering why she hadn’t listed everything Draco had done.

****

Pansy brought her a dinner of soup with fresh bread and wine, set it on the table beside the bed and then headed back to the door without a word.

“You’re the king’s concubine,” Ginny said, pulling a piece of bread off and dunking it into the rich smelling soup. “I saw you in the throne room.”

“One of a few, yes. I’ve been….his for nearly a year now.”

Ginny was surprised to see her smile when she said it, as if it were a position she were happy to have. And yet she still wore the copper collar, thick copper cuffs on her wrists and for the first time Ginny noticed a mark on the swell of her breast, like a healed over wound or scar in the shape of the King’s seal. He’d branded her.

“He must be gentle with you for you to be so happy.”

Pansy looked at her as if she were suddenly purple.

“Not at all, petal. He has very violent tastes. The reason I’ve been with him so long is that he helped me discover mine.”

Ginny’s face was a mask of confusion, her brow furrowed as she chewed on her lower lip and Pansy smiled.

“I’m aroused by pain, by Dominance and power. I like the feeling of someone being in control of me, of being owned” she explained, her voice growing low and heady, as if it aroused her just thinking about it, “Someone grabbing me roughly and pushing me against a wall.”

Ginny felt goosebumps rise on her arms, a flare of heat on the back of her neck. She thought of Harry pushing her against the tree, his hand over her mouth. Then she thought of Draco, she heard his words near her ear.

You don’t want to want a snake like me.

“My life isn’t perfect, and its not what it used to be,” Pansy said, smoothing her skirt. “But Lucius is very passionate and very possessive and it makes a girl feel…cherished sometimes. Like there’s no one else but me.”

****

When she opened her eyes again to see Hermione and Luna sitting on the edge of her bed, Ginny thought she must be dreaming. She was warm, well fed; Pansy had even helped her into a bath and washed her hair and body, paying careful attention to the welts on her backside and the bruises on her neck. After so many days in darkness it was hard to believe all of it was real.

“Hello pretty girl!” Luna said, her smile as bright as her eyes. “You’ve been asleep for nearly two days! We brought you something to eat.”

Her hair was shining clean, pulled back into an elaborate style with gold and green ribbons threaded through the braids and she wore a black gown with a black sash at the waist. Her copper collar was polished to a blinding shine and she looked quite…lively. Energetic.

“Luna!” Ginny said, taking her hand. “We’ve barely been here a week and you look like a queen!”

The golden haired girl laughed and shook her head.

“I was simply claimed by a warrior who was…enraptured by my beauty,” she said dramatically, dipping her voice low on the last words, imitating her owners voice. Ginny noticed that when she spoke of him her cheeks blushed. “He was part of the raid that brought us in and he asked for me as soon as we were brought to the castle.”

As she told the story of being brought to his room and how he’d taken her into his bed and made her his concubine, Ginny glanced at Hermione who still wore the thin white gauze of an unbroken slave. She sat primly, looking at her jagged fingernails, her mouth set in a tight frown while Luna proceeded with her tale in her sing song voice. Finally, unable to put up with tale of incredible war time romance any longer, she cleared her throat.

“Don’t let’s dance around the subject Luna. Sir Theodore raped you and he collared you as his own perpetual victim. You’re nothing more than his comfort object, a vehicle to absorb his rage.”

The girls were all silent. It wasn’t the reunion Ginny had hoped for. But Luna only shrugged, a small smile on her face.

“I’d rather spend my days in my Lord’s bed than scrubbing out chamber pots and filling bathtubs! Besides, his tastes are rather…bland.”

“Luna!” Hermione said loudly, but Ginny was smiling at the blonde girl, happy to just sit and gossip and act like a normal girl for once.

“What about you, Hermione?” Ginny asked, saddened by how Luna had shrunk away from the two of them, the bright light in her eyes dulled by her friend’s harsh words. “Are you ok?”

The older girl shook out her hair and lifted her chin, doing her best to keep composure.

“I’m alive,” she said. “I’ve been claimed by Lord Severus but…he hasn’t taken me to his chambers yet. He wants me fully trained first. The trainers are cruel and quick with the whip but at least they can’t rape us. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure,” she continued, “when I am taken to his bed I will fight and resist him every day. I will never give in, regardless of the pretty dresses or momentary kindnesses.”

“What if you like him? What if he courted you,” Luna asked softly. “Brought you flowers and jewels and all that? You act like he’s some monster and you’ve barely said a word to him.”

“It doesn’t matter what he gives me. He thinks I’m a thing to be bargained for, bought and sold and trained. No. No. I won’t be broken.”

Ginny felt her blood pulsing in her ears, her cheeks flaring with heat and anger.

“You don’t know what you’ll do yet do you?” she said, holding Hermione’s gaze. “You told me yourself that being alive was more important than my pride. How dare you judge Luna for doing something that keeps her alive, or me, or any of us? How dare you judge her for being happy and comfortable?”

“What did he do to you, Ginny?” Luna asked, putting her hand on her shoulder. “What did he make you do?”

“It doesn’t matter what I’ve done, or what Luna’s done or what Hermione will do,” she said pulling herself out of bed. “What matters is that we are women and our lives are no longer in our control, so if there are moments of comfort or pleasure that I can find in the life I’ve been given, then I’m going to take them, because my particular owner’s tastes are not….bland. And I’ll need all the comfort I can get” 

She shouldered past her friends and made her way to the bathtub. If she had her timing correct, Draco would be back for her the next day and she wanted to be ready.


	11. Old Scars

Pansy brought her a gown on the night before she was to leave, helping her tie it and adjust the panels of fabric to keep her as modest as possible. Then she sat Ginny down and began brushing her newly washed hair, gently tugging through the mats and knots that had developed since her capture.

“Were you…royalty?” Ginny asked. 

For a moment Pansy stopped brushing and sighed. 

“I was. Until I was sixteen I was royalty. And then Lucius and his troops conquered my mother’s little kingdom and…” her voice cracked a bit, the memory too painful to say out loud. “Well, then I wasn’t royalty anymore.”

Ginny knew better than to ask about the girl’s mother, having seen the leader of their own village beheaded in front of the citizens. She could remember how her view of the execution had been almost dreamlike, the figures rippling from the heat of the fires that surrounded them. It had taken only a second, the whole village stricken with silence before a huge cheer going up amongst the soldiers as they began tearing through the burning village, murdering men and rounding up the women.

“I knew your Prince when he was a boy. We used to play together as children.”

Ginny pulled away from the brush and turned to face her.

“What?” It was suddenly very important that she know what he was like, if Hermione’s mother was right in saying that no one was born evil. She needed to hear that he was innocent as a child. “You were friends?”

“I wouldn’t say friends,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. “Occasional playmates. He was his mother’s son and very quiet. We only spent time together when his mother needed time alone, otherwise they were connected at the hip. Everyone else was a weak substitute.”

They were quiet then, Ginny turning back to let Pansy braid one side of her hair, tucking the thick plait behind her ear.

“But it’s a hard thing to watch your mother die,” she said to Ginny, gathering her things to leave. “It’s like a part of you dies as well.”

Draco came for her early, standing over her bed with his arms crossed, watching her sleep. She looked different to him. There was pink in her cheeks and her hair was almost glowing, shining in a ray of sun that came through the window.

“You gave her a gown,” he said to Pansy, who had followed him into the room.

“Yes. I did. She’s not an animal, Draco.”

He whirled around on her, his eyes burning, and she bowed her head, stepping away,

“I mean, Your Highness. Before…before you take her back I should tell you that I did my best to drag details out of her, I wanted to hear how you’d beat her and raped her and tore her to shreds so I could tell your father. I was trying to rescue her but she wouldn’t say a single bad word about you. Not even to her friends.”

“You should have just asked me yourself,” he said, staring her down. “I would have told you that I did beat her, and rape her and I kept her in chains. And that’s where she’ll go the moment we return. This isn’t a fairy tale, whore. She’s mine to do with what I want. My father gave her to me and he won’t take her back unless it’s to bury her. Do you understand what I’m saying, royal cocksucker?“

“I do,” Pansy said, suddenly worried that she’d spoken too far out of turn, that he would punish her himself. She’d seen the damage done to Ginny when she bathed her and that had been only two days in his care. “I’m sorry sir.”

He looked down to her and let out a quiet, pitiful laugh before saying,

“Leave us alone.”

He turned back to Ginny to watch her sleep, her hands folded up beneath her freckled cheek, her knees pulled up to her chest like a child. She looked so peaceful, her lips slightly parted and soft, no worry in her brow. He stood in silence, just watching her breathe until he stepped in to block the sun, making her stir in his shadow.

“Good morning little finch,” he said, pulling back her covers and grabbing her arm. “Come on then, it’s time to go back home.”

She was back in her white gown, but instead of the hard copper belt and shackles, she had a black sash that crossed over her left shoulder. The wounds on her neck and shoulders had healed and her eyes were bright with renewed energy. He wanted to grab her, to push her down and take her right then, in front of the other concubines, in front of everybody. But before he could say a word she went up on her toes and held his face in her hands, kissing him softly on the mouth. It was over in a second and she quickly stepped back, lowering her eyes.

“What was that?” He asked, his eyes darting to the door, forever suspicious of any hint of kindness from anyone who knew him well enough.

“Your instructions sir, you told me it was how you wanted me to greet you.”

“Good,” he said, nodding. “Good girl. Come with me,” he said, pulling her forward by the arm. “My father wants to see you.”

*** 

He’d decided to let Ginny keep her gown, at least for the moment, just to show his father how magnanimous he was. And if he were honest with himself, which was rare, he was happy that Pansy had taken the time to bathe her and wash her hair. She looked healthier, her eyes brighter, although she kept them trained on the floor, stumbling behind him the whole way. They met the king in his chambers where he was taking his breakfast. Draco didn’t bother to knock, somewhat hoping to interrupt him half dressed or while rutting on top of some girl half his age. But he was fully dressed, his concubine from the previous evening sitting contentedly at his feet stitching the edge of a tapestry.

“Here she is father, alive and well,” he said, all but throwing Ginny in front of him. “Kneel in front of the king, Finch.”

She immediately fell to her knees, her hands in her lap, and the king stood, adopting a façade of calmness, not wanting Draco to see his immense relief that the girl was in one piece and appearing relatively healthy.

“You may stand…Finch, is it?” He said, holding his hand out to her.

Draco felt a tightness in his chest at his father proposing to touch her, but then Ginny looked over her shoulder at him, as if seeking permission to follow the King’s orders. He smiled at her nodded. The more time that passed the harder he wanted to fuck her, to see her crying again, clinging to his shoulders, biting down on her bottom lip.

Ginny stood but kept her head bowed as the King walked around her. He gathered her hair up into his hands and let it fall through his fingers, enthralled by the color. His hand ran across her shoulders, down her arm, surprised to see that she wasn’t wearing copper cuffs. Draco stepped around his father to stand in front of Ginny, in her line of sight, and her eyes flicked up to catch his. She was surprised to find them fiery with what she assumed was jealousy.

“And are you happy with her so far?” The King asked. “She’s behaving?”

Draco smirked at her then, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“She’s learning from her mistakes. And the lessons are…very entertaining.”

Lucius moved to slide her gown off her shoulder and Draco charged forward, pushing her back and standing between them again.

“Don’t,” he said, “You said you wanted to see if she was healthy, to see that I hadn’t sliced her to ribbons, feasting on her bones…”

“Son, you know I didn’t…”

“She’s well, as you see. If you want me to bring her to you every week to inspect, I will, but you will not strip her, or ‘sample’ her or whatever you were going to do.”

There were several quiet, angry moments between the two men and Ginny had the urge to curl up against Draco’s back to hide. Finally, the King’s face softened and he caught Ginny’s eye, giving her a smile. There was something false in the King’s smile, a mask that hid the sharpness he’d passed on to his son. 

“I was simply trying to get a reaction from her. She seems strangely docile for an unbroken slave don’t you think?”

The Prince looked over his shoulder at her, his mouth set in a frown as he searched her face for answers. When nothing came he simply grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the King’s chambers, tired of waiting.

*****

She could feel his frustration building as they made the walk back to his chambers. His steps became heavier, with longer strides, his mouth set in a tight line as he all but dragged her through the corridors.

“Did you enjoy being away from me?” He asked, shoving her into the room.

In such a short time she’d managed to forget how warm and cocooned his rooms were, how the air was always thick with the smell of herbs and fire, wine and leather, how the doves cooed and sang continuously in the background. The sensory overload made her head swim and she wavered on her feet as it all rushe back to her mind.

“Yes,” she answered honestly, know she’d suffer for it either way.

He continued circling her like a hungry beast, pulling off his clothes as he asked questions.

“What did they do for you? To stop your bleeding?”

She was unable to stop herself from smiling but stared at the floor so he couldn’t see it.

“You can’t stop it sir,” she said, “it happens all the time. But they helped me with the pain of it.”

“How?” He asked, slipping his hand inside her gown and pulling the fabric away from her breast. The sudden pinch on her nipple made her gasp.

“P-poppy tea,” she said, as he rubbed the tender little peak before pinching and twisting it again. “And hot baths.”

He nodded in understanding and pushed the top of her gown off of her shoulders. Bending down he took a nipple between his lips and suckled at it, nipping and nibbling the ruched skin when she whimpered.

“And did you think that putting on this gown and doing your hair, making yourself beautiful, would soothe the savage beast?” he asked, standing up again. “That I would suddenly go soft on you? Treat you like a queen?”

It truthfully had never occurred to her. She’d only done what Pansy instructed, taking comfort in being pampered for a day or two and feeling much better now that she was clean.

“No sir,” she said, doing her best to stay still and calm as he stroked and teased her other breast, both of her nipples so hardened and sensitive that they ached.

Finally he stepped back from her to work at the laces of his pants and she saw the angry red slash across his arm, puffed pink at the edges and dotted with dried blood. It was a new wound, couldn’t be more than a day old.

“What happened to your arm?” she blurted out.

He looked up at her, surprised to see such genuine concern in her eyes, but not underestimating the motivation. Was it a plan to confuse him and escape? To find a weakness and injure him further? She honestly never failed to puzzle him.

“When I didn’t have you to play with I went out to train with the soldiers. My work with the sword is a bit rusty.”

“Is…is that what happened to your chest as well?”

She reached her hand out, hovering over his old, thick scar by only a hairs breadth but he snatched her wrist, bending it backwards painfully until she cried out.

“What do you care? Are you able to remove it?”

She winced and whined as he continued to wrench her hand backwards and shook her head,

“No sir,”

“Then leave it. Its not your concern.”

Ginny nodded, begging for him to release her.

“Kneel,” he said quietly, letting up on the pressure, but still holding tight to her hand.

She immediately obeyed and he let go of her wrist, giving her a moment to recover.

“Its time you learned how to serve me on your knees Little Finch,” he said, taking a step closer. He reached out to brush her hair away from her face with a hint of unexpected tenderness. “If you do well, and follow my instructions, I’ll let you come again.” He opened the front of his worn leather trousers and pulled out his cock, already thick and hard, glistening with wetness at the tip and began to stroke it slowly, only inches from her face. “If you defy me, if you bite or misbehave, you lose your gown.” Then he bent down and ran two fingers across her cheek, “and maybe I’ll give you a scar of your own.”

“I’ll behave sir,” she said. “I will.”

“Good girl,” he said, putting his hand on the back of her head. “Open your mouth.”


	12. Poisoned Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alllll smut...all the time...Chapter 12.

Later, as she sat on the floor in her designated space, Ginny touched her fingers to her lips, swollen and tender from over use. Back in the village she’d overheard the boys talking about these things, how the some of the girls with nasty reputations would suck their cocks behind the mill, but she’d had no idea what they meant by it, or how it would even work. And if it felt good and they wanted it to be done, why would they call the girls nasty?

Draco had been slow with her at the beginning, his hand in her hair, pushing himself into her mouth until she gagged and then pulling out again, rubbing the head of his prick over her lips, cooing and purring at her, urging her to lick and kiss, praising her for taking in as much as she did. And yet, once she had a second to breathe, he’d thrust in harder, deeper, the hot, velvety smooth skin of his shaft sliding over her tongue until he hit the back of her throat. And yet, even though she was on her knees, even though he was laughing at her while drool trickled from the corners of her mouth, calling her filthy names and pulling her hair, when he sunk into her and groaned she felt powerful. She looked up at his face twisted in pure euphoria as he pumped back and forth, growling with pleasure when he caught her watching, his cock growing almost impossibly harder at the sight of her eyes glittering up at his. He pulled out again and she wiped her mouth across her forearm before leaning in to swipe her tongue over the head, licking down the length of him like he'd taught her. When he was in ecstasy, he seemed weaker, she held his pleasure in her mouth and it was all that he wanted in the world.

“Fuck, girl. Yes,” he hissed, pushing into her mouth again, his cock twitching against her lips before he pulled out completely, gripping the base tight. “Open your mouth and don’t move,” he’d said.

He stroked himself furiously, his face contorting into a mixture of agony and pleasure and she felt his seed hot on her face and neck as he came. The salty musk hit her tongue and she drew back, closing her mouth to swallow it as he caught his breath, sitting on the chest at the end of his bed.

“Good girl,” he murmured, standing up.

Then he’d put her on her chain without keeping his promise, and now she watched him as he drank his wine in front of the fire. He’d pulled his pants back on but left them unlaced, his whole body long and loose, sunk low in the chair. She watched him with confusion and a touch of something else she didn’t want to admit. Once he’d finished he’d told her not to clean herself, to leave “him” on her skin so she could feel him there are all day. It had dripped down between her breasts, tickling over her skin as it dried. She was uncomfortable and aching between her legs and he’d said he would let her come again if she behaved. Yet after he’d finished, he’d simply walked away, locking her against the wall.

“I know what you’re doing and I warned you not to,” he said, chewing on the nail of his thumb. “Your friends, the other whores, must have told you how to survive, how to close your eyes and drift away, to think of something else while he does what he wants. But I told you that if you try and disappear, I’ll dig down to find you. Do you remember?”

“I…I do sir. I wasn’t…”

“My father was right, you’re too quiet. Too still. You took my cock in your mouth like its something you do every day. You didn’t ask me why I didn’t reward you even though you were good. You didn’t fight me when I locked you down.”

“I’m…sir, I’m trying to behave how you want me to," she said, trying to hold back her exasperation, trying not to bait the lion. "I don’t want you to hurt me, or scar me, or drown me, I don’t want to starve so I’m doing what you ask.”

“You can behave and still feel,” he said, draining his goblet. “That’s what I want. The first day you were here you looked me right in the eye and told me you were scared. That’s what I want. I want to see you, all of you. I want to hear you crying, see you squirming, trying to scratch out my eyes, feel you coming. I want to taste you, smell you. I want you to fight when you feel like fighting and scream when you feel like screaming.”

“Talk when I feel like talking?” She asked quietly.

He shifted in his chair, staring her down before shrugging, his chin balanced in the palm of his hand, his stormy grey eyes heavy lidded and apathetic.

“Talk all you want, you won’t always get answers. You look like you want to talk now.”

She felt awkward sitting so far away from him, unable to look him in the eye; the way he kept turning away from her, looking for food or wine or his book was offputting. But now he turned his chair and sat facing her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on hers. His stare felt like standing in the blinding sun, unable to look right at him when all of his attention was on her. She looked down at her hands and spoke.

“You…you said earlier that if I behaved…”

He smiled, that slow spreading smile that she hated, a smile that hid wicked ideas and sharp, stinging words. He raised an eyebrow and flicked his tongue out over his lower lip.

“I know what I said earlier. And I know you can’t stop thinking about it. I see you over there, can’t sit still,"

“I…”

“Shhh…” he said, holding a finger to his lips. “Spread your legs.” Her face flushed red, her cheeks burning with humiliation, but she did what he asked, her legs slightly parted, enough that he could see a hint of the rosy pink hidden in that thatch of red hair. “No finch, further, spread them wide,” he said, his head tilted down to get a better look.

It was too much, his focus too strong, his gaze on her like fire and she tried to bring her knees together, suddenly not wanting a reward, not wanting anythin but to be left alone, unnoticed.

“Please sir…I don’t need to...”

“I told you could come and you will,” he said, his voice clipped and demanding. “Spread your legs wide, show me your pretty pink petals.”

She hesitated but finally complied and he groaned in appreciation at seeing her pussy, dark with building arousal, opening up to him. “I don’t know, finch. I can’t even tell if you’re wet. If you want to come you have to be wet.”

“I’m…wet,” she said quietly, looking at a space on the floor between her legs, the heat creeping through her body, her hands shaking with embarrassment as she leaned back on them for balance.

“Then show me,” he said. “Put your fingers in your cunt and show me how wet you are.”

His voice was breathless and nearly desperate with lust. And when Ginny didn’t move to touch herself he stood and stormed over to her in three long strides, crouching down, close enough that he could smell her arousal, he could smell that she wanted more. She flinched back from his encroachment and he grabbed her hand.

“Show me how wet you are. I want to see how you touch yourself, how you get yourself off.”

If it were at all possible, her face flushed an even deeper red and she looked into his eyes, imploring him to understand words that she didn’t want to say out loud. He let go of her wrist and she lowered her hand brushing the pads of her two middle fingers between her legs, finding the beginnings of her wetness blooming on her lips.

“Yes, good girl. Now clean your fingers off.” He guided her hand into her mouth and she did as he asked, sucking the fingers clean, her eyes locked on his. “Now keep going. I want to see you make yourself come.”

“I’ve never…I don’t do…”

Not wanting to be punished, not wanting him angry, Ginny stroked between her legs with one wet fingertip, slipping it through her wetness, brushing over the tiny hard nub of nerves he’d plucked at before.

“Oh pretty finch, please tell me,” he said, nearly laughing with devious excitement. “Tell me you’ve never done this before. Oh you’re so innocent,” he said, leaning in to brush his lips across hers, his eyes twinkling as if he'd just discovered her there. Her mouth opened to him but he pulled away. “You're just begging to be poisoned by someone like me.” He watched her fingers move, so tentative, barely dipping in between her glistening lips, but still her hips began to roll, tipping forward against her hand. “Keep going good girl, put your fingers inside, feel how hot and wet, how silky smooth you are.”

He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her thigh, his silver eyes bright and alive as he watched her. But again shyness overtook her arousal and she paused, covering herself with the palm of her hand even though the soft strokes through her slickness had felt so good.

“Don’t stop Ginny,” he said. He looked up and held her chin tight in one hand, forcing her eyes to lock on his. “Keep fucking yourself with your fingers or I’ll bring out my crop again.”

She gasped, her pupils dilating, swallowing up the color of her eyes. Her mouth fell open and her hand began to move faster, with more determination. His threat had done something, spurred her on. He watched as her fingers disappeared between her folds, her hand slipping over her wetness to rub her clit.

“Or maybe that’s what my pretty finch wants,” he whispered, drawing a single fingertip up the length of her arm. “Maybe she wants me to tie her down again, and beat her until she’s bruised.” She whined, her back arching, pushing her tits towards his face as her fingers worked frantically through the hot, creamy soft skin between her legs. “She wants to feel the sting of leather on her pretty, snow white ass. She wants to be held down.”

She was close, he could tell by the way her thighs trembled, how her breaths flew from her lungs in short bursts, her mouth open with no noise coming out. He reached forward and pulled her hand away, making her squirm and buck as she let out a sound of feral desperation. He sunk her fingers into his mouth and licked them clean, never once looking away from her frantic stare.

“Do you want me to help you girl?” he asked, holding her quivering legs apart. Her eyes opened wide and she nodded, sinking her teeth into her lower lip.

“Yes please sir, please.”

With a quick jerk forward he had her on her back, her legs pushed apart and up so that her knees almost touched her shoulders. She was mortified at how close his face was to her dripping cunt, until she remembered that she’d put his penis in her mouth. Was he going to…maybe he…

She stiffened as soon as his tongue touched her, dragging through her dripping folds, sucking the nub of her clit between his teeth, flicking at it until he felt her shaking beneath him. Unable to control her reactions, she bucked up against his face, grinding against him as he brought her just to the edge of relief.

“Ask me, finch. Ask me if I’ll let you come,” he said, pressing warm, wet kisses to the insides of her thighs, his hands running up over her hot and twitching belly to roll her nipple beneath his fingertips.

“Please sir. Please let me come.”

He lowered his head and flicked his tongue over her once, making her cry out in frustration.

“Who do you come for, finch?” He asked, his words like hot puffs of air against her clit. “Who do you belong to?”

“Y-you sir. Please. Please let me come for you.”

He plunged his tongue deep into her pussy, holding her down as she thrashed and twisted beneath him, her whole body a writhing, trembling mass as she cried out, the climax washing over her in a rippling wave of pleasure. He was surprised to feel her sink her fingers into his hair, her nails digging into his scalp as she came. He pulled away, wiping his wet lips on the inside of her thigh, kissing the hill of her hip bone, the dip of her navel before resting his head between her breasts.

“You won’t leave me again,” he said. “If all you need is poppy tea and warm water, I can take care of your bleeding. You’re my pretty finch, no one takes care of you but me.”

“Yes sir,” she said, feeling a hint of disappointment. It was a respite that she would miss, a chance to see her friends, to ask questions, to sleep in a bed and feel the sun. Once she’d fully recovered from her climax she tried to move out from under him, to sit up and close her thighs, but he easily pushed her down and sat up, pulling his hardened cock out and crouching between her legs.

“Not done with you yet, girl,” he panted, pushing into her still tender, still sensitive core. “I decide when you’re done.”


	13. Dark Marks

After watching her touch herself he’d become nearly insatiable, pinning her to the ground and hammering deep into her, his kisses swallowing her breath, every inch of his sweat slicked skin pressed to hers as if trying to melt into her. And when he’d decided she was finished, when she could barely catch her breath, her cunt aching, her legs trembling, he’d simply pulled himself up and left her wilted on the floor.

He left her for the afternoon and she wrapped herself in the furs, trying to stay warm or at least stop shaking, which she wasn’t entirely sure was just from the cold. Across from her, on the other side of the bed, he’d given the snake a fat rat that had been cornered in the dungeons. It cowered in the corner of the snake’s cage, its tail curled tightly around its body, frozen in fear. And yet the snake, barely showing signs of life, simply sat in its curled pile of white scales and watched, blinking slowly, it’s tongue fluttering out to catch the scent of its prey. There was no way for the rat to escape, it’s death was certain, but the snake chose to bide its time. The imagery was not lost on her, but she turned to face the wall and close her eyes all the same, not wanting to see the snake open its fleshy pink jaws.

The sound of the door creaking startled her to attention and she jumped to her knees, throwing the covers aside. But when she looked up in the dusky afternoon light she saw that it was only the water bearers, coming to fill the bath again.

“What a good little dog,” a familiar voice said, and Ginny saw the girl from her village, the sneering girl with the mousy brown hair who said she’d be roasted on a spit. She poured her cauldron of water into the bath and sauntered over to her, knowing the chain was too short to let Ginny stand. “I wish you could have seen your face when I came in. As if you weren’t pale enough.” The girl sniffed the air, making a face at her. “You smell terrible. I don’t know what he sees in you. I guess we all have holes though.”

“Leave me alone,” Ginny said, sitting back against the wall, digging her fingernails into her palms.

The door squeaked on its hinges again and again Ginny went up on her knees, her assumption being correct. Draco strode across the room and the girl from the village curtsied to him, placing her empty cauldron on the floor.

“We were filling your bath sir,” she said, and then looking up at him from under her eyelashes, she purred, “is there anything else we can help you with?”

Ginny watched him smile at her, apparently taken in by her shameless flirting, impressed by her subservience. He twirled a lock of her sandy blond hair around his gloved finger, rubbing it with his thumb and something grew in her throat, a lump she had to swallow down until he spoke, his voice flat.

“You can stop sniffing around in my things when I’m not around,” he said, picking at something on the sleeve of her chambermaid dress and flicking it away in the direction of the fire. “And simply do what you were sent here to do.” He walked past her and ran a hand over Ginny’s hair before going to flop down in his chair, unlacing the tops of his boots.

****

Once the bath was full he unchained her and snapped his fingers to call her to heel. The chambermaids, frightened into silence after their previous visit, had left a tray of food and a pitcher of wine with their last water delivery and Draco picked through it while she made her way across the room.

“On your knees, finch. I have your dinner.” She did as he asked, sitting back on her heels as he held out a piece of roasted potato, placing it on her tongue when opened her mouth.

They ate in silence, Draco deciding how much she could have and when she could have it, sometimes holding it out in his palm to watch her neck stretch, her head bowed down in front of him, sometimes slipping it between her lips so he could feel the wetness of her mouth on his fingers. With every bite he would move closer, his fingers brushing over her cheek or tongue, his thumb pressing against her lips. He gave her a cup of wine, letting her hold it in her hands and she drank half of it before handing it back, her hands shaking.

“Get up,” he said, stripping out of his clothes. “Take your gown off and get in the bath.”

“What do you want me to do?” She asked, sinking into the water, facing him like before, her feet tucked up beneath her, the hot water soothing the soreness between her legs. He stretched his own legs out on either side of her, rolling his neck before letting it rest on the edge of the bath.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said, his lips barely moving, concentrating on the warmth seeping into his bones, how his tight muscles seemed to loosen and melt. He was too young to hurt so much. “I just want you to be here. I like having you near me.”

“Where could I possibly go?” She asked, the words coming out a bit sharper than she’d intended.

His eyes snapped open and he held up a finger, “Careful finch,” he said, but he did nothing more, closing his eyes and breathing deep.

She followed suit, soaking in the warm scented water, watching the fire crackle as the room sunk into darkness. She thought back to Luna in the concubines’ chambers, telling them that she would rather spend her imprisonment in her Lord’s bed than scrubbing chamber pots. Were she to be let go tomorrow, what a strange tale she would tell - of the Prince who was beating her senseless with a crop one minute and begging her to just sit with him the next. He spoke to her in crude, filthy terms, grabbing her roughly, marking her body, and then he was kissing her with a tenderness and urgency that made her head swim. He called her his pretty finch, a good girl, spread her legs and licked her, not letting her rest until she was almost unconscious with pleasure, but then made her sleep on the floor, not even granting her a blanket for warmth. And here she was now in his bath, passing a cold evening quietly soaking in hot water, relaxed and unharmed. Were she to call herself a victim, no one would believe it for a moment.

He sighed, rubbing his foot over her hip. Sensing that she was temporarily in his good graces she sat up and touched the mark on his forearm, the twisting black snake emerging from the mouth of a skull, its body long and twisted on itself, leading down to an open mouth, sharp with fangs. He’d meant to scare her, to grab her wrist and squeeze her throat, but her touch was so gentle, running over the lines of the serpent, a feather light stroke down the inside of his arm that he nearly moaned with pleasure. Keeping his eyes closed he could hear her move in the water, coming closer, leaning in, her breath on his skin.

“What are you doing finch?” He asked, his own breath hitched in his lungs.

“Tell me what these marks are. Do they mean something?” She asked, moving to touch the picture of a woman impaled on a spear.

He shuddered when she touched him next, still holding his eyes closed, his right hand gripping tightly to the edge of the bath. She was surprised at the texture of the markings, slightly raised, like rough, darkened skin, thick like the whiplash of a scar that wrapped around his chest. They weren’t painted, or drawn, they were a permanent part of him.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, her fingers running over the torch that covered his heart. Unable to bear it any longer, Draco grabbed her hand and pushed it away, doing his best not to hurt or frighten her.

“Beautiful?” He snorted. “They’re a curse. A hex, a warning you’d do well to heed,” he said. “Whatever they are, they were not intended to be beautiful, they were intended as a punishment.”

“That’s why you hide them,” she said, sitting back as she sensed his discomfort.

“Wouldn’t you?”

She didn’t answer, but still stared at him, her eyes wide and questioning, the color of moss in the forest. He would have to tell her more, if only to break her gaze.

“A witch…a fortune teller, whatever she was, was traveling through the kingdom. She had her family with her and they were caught in a storm, or something like that I barely remember,” he said, again letting his head fall back against the edge of the bath. His hair was damp from the steam, hanging in front of his eye and she realized that he looked more handsome when he was undone. “She had a daughter, fifteen years old. I’d only just turned seventeen and...I…took advantage of her. Or, at least that’s what the old witch said when she caught me with the girl. My father asked her, _the witch_ , what punishment she thought would be suitable for me, _his own son_ , The Prince, and he was going to have me punished by these…these fucking peasants who just tumbled in out of the fog.”

He heard her back away, a natural reaction when his voice grew angry, when his words shot from his mouth like poison darts.

“She said that because I was… _suffering_ …that my evil was not soul deep, she would punish me with these markings. A gift for others and a curse for me.” He sat up and reached for her hand, putting it on the snake. “This is to warn others that everything that comes from my mouth is venomous and deceitful.” He pulled her closer so that he could feel her straddling his thigh and put her hand on the naked woman impaled on the blade. “This is to warn women that they’ll find only pain and destruction at the touch of my spear,” he said, raising an eyebrow to make sure she understood. On her own, she moved to stroke the blade wrapped in thorns. “My ambition is thwarted by my rage. The bird on my back is my true nature, always out of my sight, the crown beyond my reach.” He’d hoped that she wouldn’t, but of course she would ask about the last, the torch that covered his heart.

“And this?” She flattened her hand on the picture and he covered it with his own. His heartbeat was strong and even, pulsing beneath her fingertips even though she could see his cheeks had flared red, his eyes dark with the memory of the curse.

“This is the curse that she left me with, the one that will keep me alone for good. With this mark, she said that I won’t find love until I find peace, and I won’t find peace until I find the snow that gratefully absorbs the fire.”

Her face twisted up in confusion and she pulled away, chewing on her bottom lip.

“What does that mean?” She asked, and he gave her a small smile, like the forced smile of a heartbroken boy, the smile of someone who’d tried to understand it for years.

“It means it won’t happen. Snow can’t absorb fire and I’m doomed to be alone, never at peace.” Draco reached for her, pulling her by the wrist to lay between his legs, her chest pressed against his, her head on his shoulder, where they would stay until the water turned cold. “But at least I’ll have my pet to keep me company.”


	14. Misery

Within a week the weather turned vicious, the sun barely visible through the thick clouds that swept in from the sea. The days grew shorter and the kingdom prepared for a long and brutal winter. There would be fewer raids on surrounding villages, no more trade markets in the castle square, the fishing boats would all be brought in and docked, everything closing in on itself to ride out the deadly cold and wind that overtook them every year, cocooning the castle in a thick layer of ice.

Even the Prince had responsibilities that kept him from his chambers, from Ginny. The maids came and went while she passed the time alone. They would come in together, two or three times each day to clean or bring food and most of them were friendly to her, less embarrassed to look her in the eye now that she was allowed to wear a gown, but still offput by the heavy collar and chain around her neck or the marks on her skin, the angry red welts and dark purple bruises. Every once in a while the girl with the sandy blond hair and wicked smile would show up, laughing openly at her, firing insults over her shoulder while doing her work. Ginny did her best to ignore her until the day she came over and stood at the edge of her space, arms crossed over her chest as if she held some kind of power, had dominion over her.

“Still treats you like a dog I see,” she sneered. “You must not know how to please him very well.” She crouched down to get closer to Ginny’s face. “That’s what Harry always said you know, that you were a stuck up prude, a frightened little girl too scared to do anything more than kiss. Imagine if he could see you here now, the Prince’s very own fucktoy!”

“Lavender, come on,” the other girl had been cleaning out the fireplace, putting in fresh logs. “You were told to leave her alone.”

Snorting her disapproval, Lavender stood, brushing the dust off of her dress right in Ginny’s face before going to fetch her wash bucket and Ginny wrapped her arms around her knees, willing herself not to cry.

 

For days Draco was almost too busy to tease and torture her, doing nothing but bathing and feeding and occasionally fucking her when he came back to his chambers long after the sun had set. As she began to fall into his routine, following instructions without incident, he gave her more freedom. When he was with her he would let her off her chain, even let her wear her gown. She wandered the room like a ghost, running her fingers over the leather bound books, looking at details in the paintings, peering into the cages with great interest, observing these strange animals she’d never seen before. He gave her little bits of bread to set out for the doves and helped her to calm the ermine enough to let it sit on her shoulder where it curled its tail around her neck like a pretty white choker. She wouldn’t go near the snake, watching it from the corner of her eye, not liking its shining black stare. He’d laughed at her resistance but didn’t push her to go any further.

It was when he came back to the room stomping and brooding and pulling at the buttons on his vest that she would get scared. For as much as he talked about her being his precious pretty finch, he also used her as an outlet for his anger, his pain, his frustration. On those evenings he would strip her from her gown, run his hands over her pristine, white skin and send her to her place at the foot of his bed. Making her open the black chest he would tell her which tools to take out, laying them in a line in front of her. Sometimes he would cover her eyes, sometimes he would stuff her mouth with fabric, pushing her tongue to the back of her throat. But he always tied her wrists; whether it was stretching her arms out like birdwings, securing them to the four poster bed, or tying them both together, threading the rope through a heavy eyebolt in the ceiling, pulling it taut and leaving her standing on her toes, the slightest turn or twitch stretching her shoulders painfully. When he really wanted to tease her, keep her confused and on edge, he would leave her there in some uncomfortable position, taking his bath and eating his dinner while she watched him with wondering eyes. Sometimes he would strip down, sometimes he would put her on her knees and walk around her fully clothed, running his gloved fingers through her silky hair, massaging the base of her neck.

“What did you do today?” He asked, standing in front of her naked, kneeling form, his shining black boots below her bowed head.

“I waited for you sir,” she said, not looking up. “I read some of the book you gave me.”

She’d asked for something to pass the time while he was gone, anything to keep her from going absolutely crazy in the silence and solitude. Were she a regular concubine like the others, like Pansy or Luna she would be able to roam the castle, go outside and explore the kingdom even. She could sew or read or paint as long as she was always available. She would have been free to find...some purpose.

Harry had been right. She was a bit withdrawn, not one to climb to the top of the pack and pull the sword from the stone, rather she found happiness in bearing the weight, supporting the others, she was strong enough to be leant on. You could rely on her to be there. Quietly loyal. When she was back at the village she figured she would die there, living in the same house, having some villager’s children, passing each day the same way with the same chores. She would do her duty to everyone else and serve her time and if another purpose showed itself, she would grab it. The walk to the kingdom dragged behind a horse had been the furthest she’d ever ventured. Even in shackles and chains she kept her head up, looking at trees and hills and herds of sheep she’d never seen before, roads she never walked. She’d gasped when they arrived at the castle having never seen the sea. And it was because of all those things that sometimes, as she thought of her future beneath Draco’s thumb, she thought that she wouldn’t mind being his concubine, if one day he’d take the chains away, if one day he’d stop calling her his pet and let her be something more. Of course there were also times when she thought she’d kill him the first chance she got.

“Did you cry today?” He asked, nudging her knee with his boot, noticing that her attention had wandered. She shook her head. She’d been sad, and confused, but she’d given up on crying long ago.

“Did you touch yourself?” He asked, going through the same inquiries he did every night, always receiving the same answers. It was a ceremony they went through while he decided what to do to her, how to punish her.

“No sir,” she said. “I’m not…I don’t like doing that,” she said, still looking at the floor.

“That’s going to have to change, pet. Because I like watching you do that.”

She’d tried it once after he’d showed her what it could be, what she could feel by the touch of her own hand, but it hadn’t been the same. Even when she closed her eyes and imagined the same scene, made the same moves, she didn’t feel the same height of excitement, the same thrumming tension in her muscles. When she felt herself going over the edge it hadn’t made her scream like it did when he’d watched her and the realization of that fact had scared her into never doing it again.

“Are you…completely miserable here with me finch?”

At the sound of this new question, this quieter, sadder question, she looked up. He was fiercely handsome in his black leather suit, the same that she’d seen him in the day she was brought to the throne room. His eyes were the steely gray of the winter sea, his hair like white gold, smoothed back from his face, feet set wide apart. There was a mixture of anger and fear in his words. She saw that in his clenched fist he held a thin braided leather whip she’d never seen before, curled into a tight loop, his chest rising and falling with great, deep breaths as he awaited her answer.

“No sir,” she said, and then bravely added, “not completely.”

He gave her a tight nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he looked at the ceiling as if considering something before saying,

“Stand up. Turn around and hold on to the foot of the bed. Spread your legs and stay still. I have a few more questions.”

She took her position without hesitation, having grown used to the stinging heat of his crop, the dull, spreading burn of the wooden paddle or his hand. It always surprised him, and maybe her too, when he found her panting and wet, trembling with want when he was finished. Now she waited, her knuckles white, gripping the footboard. His hand ran over her back as he walked around, sitting on the edge of the bed to see her face. He tipped her chin up, rubbing his gloved thumb over her lips.

“I’m going to ask you questions and you’re going to answer honestly. I’ll know if you’re lying or not answering fully, won’t I finch?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.”

He stood and pulled off his gloves then slowly slipped out of his jacket and vest, untucking his shirt and rolling up the sleeves. She offered her hands and he pulled them to the sides, slowly, methodically tying each one to the bedposts. Then he was gone and the room went quiet. She closed her eyes, gripping the ropes that rubbed against her wrists. The whip cracked in the air behind her, close enough that she could feel a little burst of air near her cheek, but she didn’t jump, she stood as still as she could, her back swayed, her legs spread exposing herself to him and to his punishment. The next time she felt it before she heard it, a burning lash across the flesh of her ass that lasted longer, sunk deeper than any of the others. She bit down on her lip and pressed her cheek into the bed, gasping for air.

“What don’t you like?” He asked. “Since you aren’t completely miserable.”

“I…I don’t like sleeping on the floor,” she said.

The whip lashed her again and she knew he wanted more, that he wouldn’t stop until he’d heard enough.

“I don’t like eating on the floor.”

A whistle through the air, a crack against the top of her thighs. It was becoming harder to think, to put words together. The pain of the first lash was fading, but the last one was bright, building in agony.

“What else? You’re leaving out some very…big things, Ginny.”

“When…when you gag me, when you push my head beneath the water, when you close your hands around my neck. It frightens me too much when I can’t breathe.”

Now the lashes came in twos, one on each side of her ass, no time for the burning to subside, no time to breathe through the pain, no time for her to think.

“How interesting that you didn’t mention the worst of what I’ve done to you, the unforgivable crimes I’ve committed against you.”

She felt his tongue running along the tops of her thighs, the flesh of her ass, small wet kisses where she was in the most pain. Why hadn’t she mentioned those things? Why hadn’t they been the first things she brought up? Perhaps it was the way he mixed pleasure in with the pain, no matter how extreme. How every slap of the paddle was met with soft strokes between her legs, how each snap of the whip was followed by a kiss; no matter what it was, she found that once she knew what he was going to do to her it wasn’t nearly as frightening and he always rewarded her if she behaved. He stepped closer and she could feel his skin, the rough hair on his thighs against hers. He’d stripped completely and was standing behind her naked, rubbing the head of his cock between her legs while he bent over her back to whisper words close to her ear.

“And what is it, finch, that makes you happy? What keeps you from your complete misery?”

She gripped the ropes tightly, pushing her hips back against him, hoping for some relief, but he only pulled away further, chuckling under his breath.

“Ah ah…not until you answer my questions, pet.”

Ginny closed her eyes and rested her burning cheek on the bed, thinking this humiliation was worse than being whipped, worse than being strangled. She didn’t want to give him more power over her, give him more clues as to how best to enslave her…but he would know. He would know if she didn’t tell him the truth. Because as quiet and withdrawn as she tried to be, he seemed to know her much better than she even knew herself.

“Y-y-your kisses sir. I like the way you kiss me.”

He stilled, looking down at her limp and wriggling form, the sheen of sweat on her skin that had broken out when he whipped her. He’d expected something more lurid, more raw, but her admission had taken him aback. It was true, he’d always felt something unexpected when they kissed, something he hadn’t felt when he’d tangled tongues with other girls -- a frisson of pleasure through his veins, a heat in his cheeks. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her up to standing, pulling her head back, kissing her hard on the mouth, his tongue hot over hers, his teeth grazing her lip as he pulled away.

“What else,” he whispered against her open mouth.

“When you…w-when you use your tongue, your mouth…down…”

He smiled, still holding her face close to his, his forehead against hers, still breathing her air. She was too embarrassed to say it, but he knew and he flicked his tongue out, dragging it across her lips before driving into her mouth. Ginny whimpered and whined, feeling the heat building between her thighs. Draco pulled away and pushed her face down into the bed linens, and with one strong hand around the back of her neck to hold her down he kissed his way along the little bumps and hills that made up the bones of her spine. The last touch of his lips, at the very top of the cleft of her ass, made her shiver but she stayed still as she felt his hands on her thighs, his fingers spreading and holding her open.

“Like this, finch?”

He licked her, the warm wide flat of his tongue dragging up and then back down, his lips closing around her clit, sucking it into his mouth. She was wet, her folds glistening, her hips pushing back against him as she moaned, that low growling moan that let him know she was close. He stopped and stood up, lining up with her entrance grabbing tight to her hips.

“There’s one more isn’t there, girl? One more thing that you like. I know you like it.”

When she didn’t answer right away he smacked her ass hard enough to make her jump, a bright pink hand print standing out against the whip lashes.

“Y-y-yes,” she said, burying her face in the bed linens. The aching had become too much, he’d brought her too close too many times in the past hour and she was desperate. “Your...cock sir.”

She’d barely gotten the words out before he drove deep into her, the edge of the bed digging painfully into the soft skin of her stomach with every thrust forward. Letting go of her neck, he stroked two fingers down the length of her spine before smacking her ass again and it set her off, her whole body trembling with climax, her cries muffled by the linens she screamed into. He wanted to last longer, but the way she moved, the way she twisted and wriggled beneath his hands, her insides pulling him deeper, her whole body slick with sweat, it drove him to the edge within minutes and he collapsed forward on top of her, licking at the musky sweat on her neck and between her shoulders.

“You’ve done it now finch,” he said, pulling out of her and cutting the ropes loose from her hands. "Now I know everything."

She slid off the bed and down to the floor, still trembling and exhausted from the whole exercise, her body flooded with endorphins and adrenaline, and yet he just strode around the room as if it had been nothing more than a conversation, his mussed hair the only thing that showed he’d done anything at all.

“Get up,” he said, kicking at her hip with his bare foot.

Ginny flinched, backing away from him, too sensitive, too tightly strung to be touched or teased. He wouldn’t give up though and reached down to pull her up by her arm, walking her over to the chair.

“Kneel and rest your cheek on the ottoman,” he said.

“I…sir…” she went to her knees as he asked but instead of bending over the leather ottoman she turned her face up to his, hoping she’d done well enough to earn a reprieve. She was tired and sore and couldn’t take another round of his ‘questions’. “Please. Please don’t make me…”

His upper lip twitched in a snarl and he pushed her forward, holding her head down against the leather. She squirmed and thrashed, trying to get out from under him as he ran his free hand down her back before swiping his fingers across her thigh, a move that burned and stung like fire. Then, still holding her in place, he brought his shining red fingers up to her face to show her what he’d done.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “The whip broke the skin and I was going to fix it.” He stood and threw a wet rag in her face. “But now you can do it yourself. Lick your own fucking wounds. Then maybe next time you’ll keep your mouth shut and just do what you’re told.”


	15. Family Portraits

Within a week the rain turned to snow, thick icicles hanging from the windows like iron bars, snow swirling and blowing through the cracks in the stones. Darkness came early and they spent their evenings soaking in the bath in front of the fire, Draco holding his nearly frostbitten hands beneath the surface, soothing the ache, the cold that ran deep down to his bones. It was her job to keep him warm, to crawl into his lap and curl against his chest, her arms around his neck, her red hair like burnished bronze in the firelight.

 

“I’ll be gone for two nights,” he said to her later as she sat at his feet, drawing on the stone floor with a piece of charcoal.

 

When he’d noticed that she had a penchant for drawing he told her he’d bring her paper, even paints, but now that it was winter, luxuries were hard to come by. So she drew on the floor or the wall next to her bed, pictures of the animals or of his profile, she’d even drawn a delicate picture of a finch in a cage, all transient pieces that were swept away when the maids came in the next morning. He’d been reading from a scroll that someone delivered earlier in the afternoon, but now rolled it up and threw it in the fire.

“The girls will take care of you, but I don’t want you going down to their chambers. They can come here.”

 

He hadn’t liked what Pansy told him the last time she left him. The idea that the other concubines or slaves would work to take her away from him, to convince her she was a broken beast made his pulse race. He knew she couldn’t live in one room for the rest of her life, but if she went anywhere, it would be with him.

 

Her heart dropped and she kept her gaze on the floor. She’d hoped it would be a chance to see Luna or Hermione again, or even Pansy…to see anyone different, anyone who could help her understand the strange tangle of feelings she was navigating, like undoing a knot out in a massive skein of yarn, pulling at one tail and ending up tightening the others.

 

“Which girls?” She dared to ask, still drawing, her arm brushing against his shin.

 

“Does it matter?” His voice was icy, waiting for her to defy him. Waiting for her to complain, he’d been trying to hold his temper for some reason, but his blood was up and he felt anxious.

 

“No sir,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.” But silently she prayed that it wouldn’t be Lavender.

 

They were quiet again and he picked up a book he’d been studying, full of complicated diagrams and maps of the stars. When he was lost in his work sometimes Draco’s hand would run over her hair, his long fingers massaging the muscles at the base of her skull. It made her limp and warm, as if she were floating in the hot springs, her skin tingling.

 

“Where are you going?” She asked.

 

He noticed that she’d leaned into him, her side pressed against his leg. When she looked down to work on her charcoal drawing she would rest her head on his knee. She was drawing the snake, but the eyes were closed.

 

“One last hunt before the rivers freeze. Ever since I turned thirteen I’ve gone along with the other archers. It’s where I found the ermine, actually, brought him home in a little leather pouch.”

 

She smiled, looking over her shoulder at the cage against the wall. She’d taken a liking to the little furry rodent, carrying it around the room on her shoulder, feeding it from her hand. He’d never named any of his pets, but she’d started calling him Silky and he could swear the animal answered to it.

 

“Will you miss me?” He asked, tipping her chin up to look into her eyes.

 

For a moment she seemed puzzled, her eyes dark, as if her mind had clouded over with thought. He stroked her cheek and she leant into the gentle touch, closing her eyes and sighing before saying,

 

“I don’t like to be alone.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was strange to sleep in the Prince’s chambers without him. He’d left before the dawn, trailing his fingertips over her cheek as a goodbye. When he wasn’t in his bed she had a clear view to the snake, its glassy black eyes glittering in the dark. Crawling to the edge of her chain she pulled the huge black bear fur from his bed and curled up inside it to sleep. It still held some of his warmth and it smelled like him, like black leather and warm skin and the oil from the bath. For the first time in a while she was comfortable, sleeping sound until sun rose on the first full day of the hunt.

 

She was barely awake when she heard the door opening. Thinking it was the chambermaids, she simply curled up tighter in the bear fur and sat against the wall, hoping they’d brought her some breakfast or at least water. The nicer girls would bring her a chamber pot to relieve herself in the mornings and a warm wet rag to clean herself with, sometimes even letting her use a brush for a few quick seconds before anyone saw; but whenever Lavender came she would simply drop the slop bucket in front of Ginny, telling her to piss in whatever she was given, like the animal she was. But this visitor wasn’t a chambermaid. It was King Lucius.

 

He smiled at her when he shut the door behind him, walking towards her with his hands clasped behind his back, his long white hair tied with a piece of leather cording. Like his son he wore all black, his boots shining enough that she wondered if they were wet, his high collared vest closed with a line of tiny silver buttons. Over one arm he held a neatly folded cloak. As he approached, he reached in to jacket pocket and pulled out a key that hung from a fine chain. She would have recognized it anywhere. It was her key, Draco’s key, the key that kept her on the floor.

 

“Good morning Miss Ginny,” he said, and she detected no sarcasm, no false flattery in his tone.

 

He followed the length of chain to the lock at her collar and unfastened it, allowing her to stand…if he wanted her to. Still, she covered herself with the fur.

 

“You’ve been in this room for quite a long time, haven’t you?” He asked, unfolding the cloak and holding it open to her. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

 

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and he nearly laughed at how quickly her face brightened. And yet she stayed in her place, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Draco had brought her to the King’s chambers twice more since her first visit, making no effort to hide the welts and stripes he left on her, but making sure the King knew she was healthy, fed, no worse for the wear as it were. But she was still treated as a pet, a slave, not as a lover or companion, and so there was still a great deal of sadness and fear in her face, her words slow to spill out, her brow always furrowed. The King had hoped by now something would have changed. Or someone.

 

“I’m…I’m not sure I’m supposed to go with you, sir,” she said, her eyes focused on the black key between his fingers. It seemed so strange seeing it separated from Draco, held by a different hand. Behind him the snake slithered and fluttered his tongue.

 

“He’d be happy to hear you say that, I’m sure. But you see, he gave me the key, both to his chambers, which he’s kept locked from me for years, and to your collar. So you can assume he trusts me with you. I thought maybe you’d like to see a bit of the castle, and maybe a friendly face.”

 

She stood immediately and he wrapped the heavy, fur lined cloak around her shoulders, fastening it at her neck. She was warm and hidden, from head to toe, the fur lined hood tucked against the back of her neck.

 

“Would you like to see a portrait of the Queen? Draco’s mother?” The King asked, walking ahead of her to the door. “And then maybe to the throne room for some fresh ocean breezes.”

 

Ginny nodded, smiling for the first time in days and Lucius wondered if Draco had ever seen such a bright, beautiful thing. If he ever did, she’d be trapped here forever.

 

The portrait room was a narrow hall off of the throne room with soaring vaulted ceilings, stone pillars between the windows with huge open mouthed dragons carved from stone perched on their tops that cast frightening shadows across the floor when the sun peeked through. It had been an uncomfortable walk from Draco’s chambers, showing her face to the Lords and Ladies, chambermaids and concubines that wandered the halls. They all had heard about the wild girl with the red hair chained up in the Prince’s bedroom like a beast. She was sure they’d heard her screams, her crying if they’d been in the hallways, but if anyone wanted to say something, or pass judgment on her, they didn’t dare because the King was beside her. They walked through the throne room and for the first time in weeks Ginny could breathe the icy sea air blowing in from curtains parted on the open balcony. For a few minutes she simply stood and filled her lungs, her eyes closed to the sun. That alone was almost enough, but Lucius touched her arm to make her turn around.

 

A long row of portraits, each nearly as big as a wall in her old home ran down the length of the corridor, each separated by pillars that held huge iron caged torches. The older generations were further down the hall, but in front of her were Lucius, and to his left his wife Queen Narcissa, the frame of her painting draped in green and black fabric. She was beautiful of course, sitting back leisurely in her throne with her chin balanced on the back of her delicate hand, a small knowing smile on her face. Her light golden hair was piled onto her head in twists and braids, held in place by her iron and onyx crown. Her blue eyes seemed to be staring at Ginny, sizing her up, maybe looking for what her son saw in her.

 

She turned and saw that Lucius was looking at another portrait, the one of his son. There Draco stood in his frame in a position she was very familiar with, his feet wide apart, his hands behind his back, chin held high. As usual he was dressed all in black, but with a green and silver sash across his chest and a shining sword with a beautiful iron and onyx pommel. Behind him, in the shadowy distance was a silhouette of his namesake, a statue of a giant dragon, giving the Prince the appearance of having massive black wings. Looking up at his hard, unsmiling face, fierce silver eyes and snowy hair, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks, her heart pounding as if he were going to speak, step from the painting and put her on her knees.

 

“He was never a particularly…bubbly little boy, but after his mother passed he was…lost, hidden under a shroud of darkness that I’m not sure he’ll escape from.” The King said, looking up at his son.

 

“When did she pass?” Ginny asked, still unable to look away from those eyes.

 

“When he was twelve. Just when he needed her the most, don’t you think?”

 

She shrugged, tearing her gaze away to look down at her own hands.

 

“I don’t know. I lost my parents when was only four.”

 

“I’m sorry about that.”

 

“What do you know about his…curse?” She asked, when the King started back towards the throne room.

 

He folded his hands behind his back and walked towards the balcony. Heavy curtains had been hung and partially closed to try and block some of the wind, but he didn’t seem to mind it. She stayed a few steps behind.

 

“The witch who placed it has since died,” he said. “And we’ve had healers and even other witches examine him, study the exact words….”

 

“And it can’t be broken,” she said, remembering what Draco told her in the bath.

 

But Lucius turned to her with a smile.

 

“It can most certainly be broken,” he said, looking at her as if she were in on some secret with him. “I believe it will be broken, but he’ll need learn some lessons first. The key to the curse is to know who you are.”

 

“I don’t…”

 

“Come on, I’ll get you back to your room. I’m afraid I don’t have all day to wander the halls with a lovely lady.”

 

Turning the corner to climb the stairs to Draco’s chambers, Ginny looked up to see Hermione in a black gown with a thin copper collar, her hair pulled back and tamed into a knot at the nape of her neck. She looked…almost regal. It had been over a month since she’d seen her and the difference was almost startling. She was on the arm of an older Lord, sharply featured with dark hair.

 

“Ginny?” Hermione gasped, her face breaking into a bright smile, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh thank God, oh Ginny!”

 

The men said nothing as the two women embraced, Hermione surprised at how slight Ginny felt in her arms, how drawn her cheeks were, even though her eyes were bright and her smile genuine.

 

“Lord Severus,” The King acknowledged the man with the dark hair who bowed and gave a half smile.

 

“Your highness.”

 

The King saw that Ginny wanted to speak to her friend and so he called Lord Severus to his side to ask his urgent opinion on some matter that he had not yet decided on.

 

“You look…you’re gorgeous, Hermione!” Ginny said with a sincere smilei, touching her fingers to her delicately styled hair. “You look…happy.”

 

Hermione smiled, a sad smile that Ginny didn’t like. It was almost like…pity. But she ignored it, accepting another hug.

 

“Lord Severus is very kind,” she said, looking over her shoulder, a touch of pink blooming at the apples of her cheeks. “I’ve been with him nearly three weeks now. I suppose you and Luna were right, it’s easier to just let yourself be broken than to live in misery.”

 

Ginny frowned. It was strange to see this woman before her, walking around in the sunshine, bathed and dressed and holding audience with the king, considering herself broken.

 

“Do you think I’m broken?” Ginny asked, pulling away. “The way you’re looking at me, it’s like you’re mourning my death.”

 

“No, no,” Hermione said, her face forced into a smile, but her eyes still worried and dark. “You look sad, though. I know what hell you’ve been through...I just want, I wish you could find happiness.” The older girl ran her hand through Ginny’s hair and then leaned in to whisper, “I’m going to do my best to help. I’m going to speak to Lord Severus, we’ll find a way to rescue you.”

 

Ginny wrenched her hand from the girl’s grip. In her heart she knew that Hermione meant well for her, that she truly did only want her to be happy, but it was how she looked at her, as she were delicate as glass, in need of everyone else’s assistance just to breathe.

 

“Rescue me! I’m a grown woman now, I don’t need you to take care of me. You have no idea what I’ve been through, what I’ve taken and been standing at the end of it.” Her voice was loud and strong. “You, Luna, none of you would have lasted a day in his care.”

 

“Ginny…”

 

“Don’t you dare tell Lord Severus a word about me, or about Prince Draco. You know nothing about him, nothing of what he’s suffered through and if you don’t think I can take care of myself then you know nothing about me.” She turned and looked at the King. “Your highness, I’m ready to go back to my chambers.”

 

Hermione stood there dumbfounded until Lord Severus nodded to her and held out his hand, indicating she should return to his side. When Ginny looked up at the King she saw he was smiling; a small, knowing smile, as if watching the unfolding of spectacular plan.


	16. The Gift

The brown bear stood at the edge of the woods, looking off to the south as he cast long shadows in the setting winter sun. In the blind Draco drew back his bow, one eye squinted into the fading light, the string cutting sharply into his cold fingers. Thus far the hunt had been successful for the party in general but not for him. Back at their camp, the cart held three field dressed stags with beautiful forking antlers and two small black bears but nothing he could claim as his. He shook his head clear, lowered his bow and repositioned himself, refocusing on the target.

They were hunting to provide food for the winter, furs and leather to keep people warm, bone and antlers for tools. It was his job to provide for her…for the kingdom, but he wanted this beast as a trophy. It was the largest bear he’d ever seen. Not surprising, given he only went out with the party once or twice a year, but he could tell by the low whistles and murmurs of the rest of the men that it was a sizeable creature. If he could bring it down and bring it down alone…

He drew the string back again, his fingers brushing his cheek, his arm trembling with the tension. Her arms would sometimes tremble in their bindings. She would drop her head between her shoulders to catch her breath and he would see the muscles twitching and pulling…

He let the arrow fly without looking, the fletching slicing through his finger.

“Miss,” someone said, as everyone took a few steps away from the Prince.

The bear ambled off into the woods leaving deep tracks in the new snow. 

“Follow him,” Draco said, already pulling himself out of the blind, trudging off towards the trees. “We don’t go back until I’ve taken him down.”

****

She woke up in the misty grey light before dawn, to the sound of metal, clinking chains. 

“Good morning Finch,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes and nearly screamed at the sight in front of her. It was Draco in his black leather suit, knee high boots and a heavy wool coat, all of them covered in blood. His was face speckled and stained, thin rivulets dried on his throat, his snowy white hair dotted with red. He smelled like dirt and sweat and copper, the musk of dead animals.

“Shhh, it’s ok girl,” he said, running a filthy hand down her cheek. “It’s just me. Aren’t you going to welcome me home?”

She stood, trembling with cold and fear, barely able to make out his features in the shadowy light. He stepped closer, close enough that she could still feel the cold from his skin.

“I came back for you little finch.”

She took his face in her hands and pulled him close, kissing him hard on the mouth, tasting the blood and cold on his lips, pushing her tongue into his mouth, breathing in the earthy, feral scent of his skin. He groaned against her, pushing her against the wall as her hands ran under his coat, pressing against his chest. 

“That’s more like it. Good girl,” he said, pulling back. 

He smiled at the sight of her white gown covered in the blood of the bear, dark smears across her cheeks and stained lips. She looked energized and alive, her eyes sparkling in the dark.

“I…I missed you,” she said, surprised to hear the words come out of her own mouth. “I mean…I didn’t…”

He was already walking away, knowing it wasn’t what she meant. He’d heard false flattery before, women telling him how beautiful and strong he was, all in exchange for something he wouldn’t give, although he wasn’t quite sure why Ginny would lie like that.

“My father said to bathe before I woke you, or else you’d be afraid,” he said, pulling the coat off his shoulders and letting it fall at his feet. “I told him that he must not know you very well if he thinks a little blood would frighten you.”

Two chambermaids came to the room with cauldrons to begin filling the bath but he held up a hand to stop them.

“Just the fire and the lamps today,” he said. Then turning his eyes back to Ginny he said, “We won’t be here long.”

She tilted her head in confusion, filled with a mix of fear and excitement. Her heart beat fast at the thought that he was…letting her go? Giving her her own room? Or had he realized while he was gone that he was done with her? Had he found another girl? That would be good. It would be good if he found someone else, another pet. Wouldn’t it? She swallowed audibly and looked back at him, slowly unbuttoning the silver buttons on his leather waistcoat, revealing a black linen shirt beneath.

“Come over here, we’re going to play a game,” he said. She stood still, looking over her shoulder at the girls working in the room. “Finch. Have you forgotten how to behave?”

“No sir.”

“Then come closer. I brought you a gift,” he said, holding his hands out to his sides. “But you need to find it.”

She approached him slowly, as if he were a wounded animal, the oil lamps and the fire revealing more of the blood and sweat, the mud and melting snow caked on his boots. His hair was dirty and tousled, his face streaked as if he’d been at war. It surprised her how it warmed her stomach, the sight of such primal, raw filth, the thought of him running through the forest, stretching back the string of a bow, his knife slicing through the throat of a beast.

“Finch!” He said, his tone a bit sharper, the playfulness fading with every moment she hesitated. 

“I’m sorry sir.”

He stood still as a statue as she unbuttoned the rest of his vest, pushing it down and off his shoulders, her hands covered in blood. She pulled his shirt free of his pants, making him groan when her fingers brushed over his stomach, the hair beneath his navel. Once his chest was bare he tipped her chin up to capture her lips in a brief kiss, nudging his hips against her.

“Keep going pet,” he whispered. “You’ll find it.”

She knelt in front of him and unfastened the low slung leather belt that holstered his hunting knife, pulling it free and dutifully handing it back to him. Playing his game, she looked up, running her hands over the legs of his pants, pretending to search for something she suspected didn’t exist. He only smiled down at her, running one hand through her hair, pushing it back behind her ear. She unlaced the front of his leather trousers and was surprised to find something tucked into the waistband, nestled down into the tuft of golden hair between his legs.

It was a beautiful amber colored claw, as long as her index finger, an inch wide at the base, tapering down to a viciously sharp tip. There was still a bit of skin and fur at the end of it, but it was clean and polished to a shine, beautiful really, a trophy of his hunt. He took it from her hand and drew the point across her cheek, his voice smooth and conspiratorial, pouring over her like honey.

“I missed hitting this bear three times because I was thinking about you. About you writhing beneath me, you kneeling and swallowing my cock, about burying my face between your legs and licking you until you shook.” The claw pulled at her bottom lip. “But I finally brought it down, the biggest bear I’ve ever taken. And now that I'm back, I can punish you for distracting me with those other thoughts.”

Her eyes were wide with amazement, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, her mouth hanging open as she tried to catch her breath. He pulled the claw back and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers once again, his tone completely changed. 

“My father said he took you out, that you behaved yourself quite well. So I think I’ll try it for myself.”

He held a hand out to pull her up from her knees, leaving his trousers laced, tugged down low on his hips.

“Come on little girl, we’ll go visit the baths.”

The chain that hung from her copper collar was thin and fine, no bigger around than her finger and she’d barely thought of it since the Prince had begun locking her to heavy iron chain on the floor. But now he spun the collar on her neck so that the thin leash hung in the front, down between her breasts, dangling between her legs. He pulled the end of the chain from within her gown and wrapped it around his hand before leading her out the door.

 

The baths were near the concubines’ quarters; a vast, low ceilinged room of gray and white marble with roaring fires behind thick pillars along one wall. Six baths in total, there were three huge rectangles of steaming blue grey water beside three cool plunge pools. The faucets were carved dragon heads, water pouring from their open mouths. The Prince had stopped in to a small room before leading her in, emerging with a small servant girl behind him carrying an armload of sheets and bath oil.

“I can help your girl to undress,” she said, putting the supplies beside the pool. 

“No, that’s my favorite part,” Draco said with a grin, pulling Ginny to stand behind him. “We won’t need anything else. Just make sure to keep everyone out.”

The girl bowed and left while he untied the sash at Ginny’s waist and slipped the gown from her shoulders. She stood silent as he stripped, pulling off his heavy boots and leather pants. The bear claw clattered over the stones and set it on the edge of the bath before stepping into the water, holding a hand out to help her down.

“Father said you went exploring,” he said as she settled down beside him.

The water was decadent, warm and deep, and there was a shelf of marble for them to sit on. Even though the baths were more than ten feet wide he pulled her close, sitting her right beside him, slicking their skin with heavily scented oil. The dirt and blood clouded the water as it slid from their bodies.

“Yes,” she said. Then, struggling for further conversation as his hands ran over her breasts and stomach she said, “Your mother was very beautiful.”

He set the bottle down and nodded, his face darkening with a frown. He swirled his hand beneath the surface of the water, looking into the depths as if he could find her reflection there, all of his blustery pride and playfulness faded into sadness that she regretted causing.

“And your portrait is very handsome,” she said.

He snorted with laughter then and looked up at her with one eyebrow arched, searching for the sarcasm in her eyes, but finding none. Her earnestness, the calm truthfulness on her face made him uncomfortable. There was no forced smile, no fast fluttering eyelashes beckoning him closer, she simply said the words and waited for a reply. 

“You asked my father about my curse? I’m sure he told you that he believes it will be broken,” he said. “He thinks I’m destined for blissful peace and true love, happily ever after, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

“He didn't say all of that. But he did say that in order to break the curse,” she said. “You needed to know who you are.”

He pulled Ginny over to his lap and kissed her, her body floating in the water as he held tight to her face, his tongue dancing with hers, their lips warm and wet. 

“Are you sure he was talking about me? Because I already know who I am, pet,” he said, guiding her hand under the water to wrap around his hardening prick. “Would you like to hear the story?”

She nodded as he kissed her again, his hands sliding down to her hips, pulling her body to position her over him.

“Guide me inside, finch, nice and slow,” he said, tilting his hips up as she lowered herself onto his cock. It surprised him when she started to move on her own, her hips rolling once he was fully seated in her slick heat. “No no,” he said, pinching her ass. “Just sit. Don’t ride yet.”

“Yes sir,” she said, her hands on the wall of the bath behind him, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, adjusting to the full, stretching feeling, barely able to keep still.

Draco took the bear claw and slipped it between his fingers as if it were part of his own hand and combed it through her damp hair, tickling over her scalp. Then he drew it around the shell of her ear and traced her eyebrow, the length of her nose.

“I was an innocent boy until I was sixteen. The virgin prince,” he said, one hand squeezing her hips every time she wiggled or bucked. “Stay still.” He continued to trace swirls and circles over her skin with the tip of the claw as he told the story. “A noblewoman, a duchess I believe, came to me on my sixteenth birthday. She wanted to be my introduction into the world of passion, she said. Three times she invited me to her chambers showing me everything she knew, from my first deliciously wet kiss to pleasuring me with her hand,” he gave one slight thrust of his hips and she gasped, grinding down against him. “Then she took me in her mouth and showed me how to fuck her with mine.”

He kissed her deeply, his hot tongue sliding deep into her mouth, his hips grinding up against her as she dug her fingers into his arms. 

“Finally, on the third visit she had me on my back, teasing me with her fingers and using her tongue to draw on my body, kissing my throat, telling me what beautiful soft skin I had, so pure and pale. She lowered herself onto my cock and started moving, sliding up and down, pinning me to the bed as she rode me.”

Ginny tried to do the same, moving against him. His cock, thick and hard, buried in her heat, was making her feel jittery, aching; but he held tight to her hips, not letting her find relief, digging the claw deep into the skin of her breast when she whined.

“Of course it was good. It felt good being inside her,” he said, pulling Ginny against his chest, “It felt good fucking her, licking her, touching her. It felt good to make her come, to hear her screaming, her fingernails digging into my back,” he dragged the bear claw down her spine, making the muscles of her cunt twitch and ripple around him. “But there was something missing. There was something more that I needed.”

“Please sir,” she whispered almost painfully, resting her head on his shoulder, squeezing his hips between her thighs.

“And then I went to the village to find someone else, to see if I could find what was missing. I found a girl. She was pretty enough, dark hair, dark eyes…mysterious. She knew who I was, but after I spoke with her, telling her what I wanted, she decided to play games with me, she wanted me to chase her.” 

His voice grew darker, he spoke faster, but what Ginny noticed most of all was that he started moving inside her, slow, deep thrusts. 

“So I chased her. I chased her out of the village into the woods, following the sound of her giggling,” he said. “You see, Finch, she was giggling because she was running the game, getting what she wanted from me, just like the duchess pinning me to the mattress. They took from me. But then the giggling girl tripped on a tree root and fell.” He thrust up into her hard, smiling when she cried out, her hands holding tight to the edge of the bath. “And when I caught up to her, she wasn’t giggling anymore. I flipped her onto her back and crouched over her, pinning her hands down as I kissed her and when I looked in her eyes…she was afraid.” 

He started fucking into her hard, water splashing up and over them, Ginny whining in his ear. 

“I pushed up her dress and she squirmed and kicked and she begged me not to hurt her. That’s when I knew what had been missing. That's when I knew what I needed. Because I owned her at that moment, she was mine," he said, punctuating each phrase with a hard thrust upwards. "She was scared, and she was shaking, but she didn’t dare tell me to stop. Do you know why finch?” He asked, dragging his tongue over her throat, up to kiss her mouth. “Because she didn’t want me to stop. I fucked her until she screamed for me.”

With one last thrust he drove up into her and felt her muscles ripple around him, milking him, pulling him deep as her own climax took over. He wrapped her hair around his fist and tugged hard saying,

“Just like you do.”

She fell against him, her energy spent, barely able to stay above the surface of the water as he rode out the last waves of his own orgasm, breathing heavy in her ear.

"Let's get out of here, finch, and we'll go find out who you are next." 

He stroked her hair and kissed the crown of her head, pulling himself out from under her and ducking under the surface of the water to rinse the last of the blood from his hair. She watched him break the surface, slicking his hair back from his face, wondering what kind of story she could tell him, even though he'd made the suggestion as if he already knew exactly who she was.


	17. The Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're approaching the bittersweet end of the story...only two or three chapters to go. Thank you so much everyone for your kind words and reviews! I love it!

He’d surprised her when she climbed out of the bath, ordering her to stand as he dried her skin then massaged it with oil, leaving her shining and slick. On the floor beside him was a pile of black clothing that she mistakenly thought was his.

“You’re a filthy little finch now,” he said, running his slippery fingers between her legs, still sensitive and wet from his earlier ministrations. “White doesn’t suit you anymore.”

He pulled the black gown over her head. It was similar to the other concubines’ dresses, with its low cut front and open back, the hem brushing the floor, but he didn't give her the sash. Instead of black or green fabric, he wrapped a wide corset belt around her waist. It was beautifully oiled black leather that dipped down below her navel and up to just below her breasts with thick leather laces up the front that he pulled and tightened to the point where she could barely breathe, accentuating the flare of her hips. Wearing it forced her to stand tall, her back straight, chest out and she felt different…although she couldn’t quite tell what it was exactly. Pride? Strength? Power?

“One more thing,” he said, throwing a pair of black leather sandals at her feet.

She sat down to slip them on, criss-crossing the laces up her calves. And when she was finished she looked up and saw him standing with his arms crossed over his chest, pouting like a child, almost making her laugh.

“Thank you sir,” she said, bowing her head in front of him. “These are beautiful.”

He took her hand and put the bear claw in it, closing her fingers over her palm and kissed the top of her head.

It was barely noon and the castle was bustling with soldiers and guards, concubines and servant girls coming and going, all of them looking at Ginny with a mix of surprise and confusion, her new dress forcing her to walk with a bit of purpose even though she kept her head bowed and she was being pulled forward on a leash.

_Tell me who you are._

_Know who you are._

Walking past the concubines' quarters she saw Lavender gathering up linens off of the beds. Part of her wanted to catch her eye, to let her see her in her new gown, that she was out and about with her Prince. But another part of her wanted to make sure the chambermaid didn't see her leash, or the way Draco walked ahead of her, not even acknowledging her existence. Pansy appeared in the doorway and smiled at her.

"Hello Ginny," she said.

Draco actually stopped walking, allowing them to exchange pleasantries. Pansy caught his eye and bowed low.

"I heard the hunt was successful my Lord," she said. "I'm glad everyone returned safely."

The Prince nodded tightly and looked back down the hall, clearly not interested in staying for long, Ginny could sense it, feel it in the tension in her leash. She reached out to squeeze Pansy's hand and smile at the same moment that Lavender emerged, sidling behind the two of them.

"Good girls get to go out for walkies!" She said under her breath.

Ginny shot her a look of disgust, opening her mouth to say something and Lavender laughed.

"Careful there girl, don't want to cause a scene, get yourself beaten with a stick."

"Watch your mouth, girl," Pansy said, suddenly appearing much more regal than Ginny had ever seen her, her eyes flashing with anger. "Bring those down to the laundry and get back to your work. Miss Ginny is of no concern to you."

Draco tugged on the leash, tired of waiting and Ginny nodded.

"Thank you," she said to Pansy. "It was good to see you again."

Pansy leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Don't worry about Lavender. She's had her eye on 'saving' the Prince for years. She's just jealous that you're doing a better job of it."

"Pansy!" Draco barked, pulling Ginny closer. "We're leaving. Let her go."

He walked faster then, his eyes sweeping the hall to keep out of sight of any distractions. He'd barely laced up his trousers, his shirt was halfway buttoned and untucked as he walked ahead of her, the skin on the back of his nek shining with oil, hair wet and messy, his bare feet slapping loudly against the icy cold stones of the corridor. His nervous energy made him wild and feral, completely uncivilized, and yet his presence in the hallways still drove everyone into the corners, girls pressed up against the stones to stay out of his path. And the more she watched him lead her the more she realized that it was his power she was drawn to, how he influenced the behavior of others without saying a word, how the air around them was charged with energy whereever he went.

A servant girl with honey colored hair came out from a chamber door, her arms full of dishes. Seeing Draco approaching, her face went white, her eyes wide with a fear that Ginny was all too familiar with, and yet at the sight of it, Ginny felt a hot surge of anger in the pit of her stomach. Anger at the girl. As they passed her and she bowed low, the Prince ignored her completely, not even stopping to acknowledge her, but she caught Ginny’s eye and flushed red before hurrying off down the corridor.

He’d been gone for only two days and yet the welts on her skin had faded, nothing but pale pink lines across her back, tiny discolored bruises on her ass. So he shackled her to the posts at the foot of the bed and made her kneel on the chest, lashing her until he saw the sweat on the back of her neck, the trembling exhaustion in her arms, the shining slick trail of her arousal on her thighs.

“Are you going to beg me to stop, pet?” He asked, running his tongue over the hot, swelling skin between her shoulder blades.

“No,” she said, breathlessly. “No sir.”

“Would you like to tell me who you are, finch?”

“I’m your pet, sir.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, dragging his fingers through the wetness between her legs. “That’s true. But there’s something more isn’t there? Something you’ve only just discovered I think?”

She closed her eyes and tried to conjure the answer he needed, struggling to focus, to listen to his words and not go floaty and soft, lost in the sting of the whip, the heat that raced through her veins right after the pain burst like lightning.

“I’m sorry sir…I don’t…know,” she said, and he quickly whipped her again, then stroked her again, the sensations of pain and ecstasy overlapping as pressed himself against her, his lips near her ear.

“You don’t know? That’s a shame, pretty finch. Maybe someone else knows? Maybe that pretty chambermaid we saw...maybe she knows, little Astoria. What a pretty peach she is. She’s the first maid I ever fucked in this castle,” he said, still slipping and scissoring his fingers between her legs. “She was so tight and so frightened. She cried and cried. Oh fuck did she get me hard.”

Again Ginny felt the pit in her stomach, saw the face of the little honey haired chambermaid. She pictured her on his bed, his cock in her mouth, his hand in her hair.

“Stop! Stop please!”

The room was silent but for her heaving breath and the crackling fire. His hand had stopped moving between her legs, his lips frozen on her neck.

“Stop what, finch? You don't like me touching you?”

“Stop talking about her, the maid. Please, sir.”

“Of course, pretty girl,” he said, pulling away completely and moving to sit in front of her on the bed.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, licking the sweat and the tears from her cheeks, his forehead pressed to hers so he could feel her hot breath panting over him.

“Who are you, finch?”

“I’m yours,” she said, her voice weak, unable to carry the weight of her words. “And I _want_ to be yours. I’m your finch.”

Draco smiled at her, kissing her, biting her lip hard enough to taste her blood on his tongue.

“My poor twisted little finch,” he said, unlacing his trousers again. “What a life you’ve sentenced yourself to.”

 

He woke in the middle of the night to find that the fire had died, nothing but a pile of rippling orange embers behind the grate. Outside the wind whipped against the stone walls, little swirls of snow sneaking through the window panes. After adding logs to the fire he turned to look at Ginny curled up as small as she could be, her striped back glowing gold in the growing firelight. He stepped closer and saw her shivering, her toes tucked beneath the edge of one of the furs, but otherwise she was only warmed by her gown, as he’d instructed her on her first day with him. Her back was angry with welts, twenty or more, bright and bruised at the edges. He’d put her through her paces after she’d admitted that she wanted him and a tiny voice inside of him wondered if he’d pushed her too far. And yet he knew that she liked it, her body confirmed it every time, so hot and slick when he finally gave in and fucked her, unable to resist her begging, the way she squirmed and whimpered, her eyes pleading with him. It was her dirty secret. She liked to be helpless, to be frightened and humiliated and when she finally was allowed to come it was momentous, draining every ounce of her energy, leaving him to carry her, limp and sated to her bed on the floor.

“Finch,” he called out to her, his voice no more than a whisper in the dark, quieter than the howling wind. She mumbled and shifted, turning onto her back, one arm flopped out to the side. Her teeth chattered and she curled up again, this time turning her cold, pale face to him. He liked her better with pink in her cheeks.

“Finch wake up,” he said a bit louder.

She stilled, then blinked, her eyes opening then closing again, only partly awake.

“Draco?”

He flinched at her use of his name, how it sounded tumbling weakly from her lips, as if she were moaning…as if she were… He knelt down and pulling the key from around his neck, unlocked her chain. Her skin was cold to the touch when he picked her up and she rested her head on his chest, against his heart.

“No one is born evil,” she mumbled, her eyes still closed, her lips barely parted.

Was she dreaming of him? He lowered her onto the bed, pulling two thick furs up to cover her. When she was settled he slid in behind her, pulling her against his chest, one of his legs hooked around hers. She wiggled and stretched, her hips pressing into him and he breathed deep, calling up every ounce of his self control. She'd earned her rest.

He’d never let a woman sleep with him. He’d barely ever let a woman into his chambers, but when they did pay him a visit he sent them on their way as soon as his cock went soft, not wanting to suffer them clinging to his body, attempting to woo him, suffocating him with their head on his chest, ruffling his hair. He didn’t use women for comfort or affection. They were only a release, a tool, a vent for his anger. But Ginny lay there silently, her breathing a slow, comforting rhythm, tiny whimpers and whines as she lived through her dreams. He would let her stay there when it was cold, if she behaved herself, if she asked. These were the rewards she could earn.

Before falling asleep she’d managed to get one of her arms free and snuggled closer to him, covering his hand with her own. All he could think of as his eyes grew heavy was that in the cold blue moonlight, her skin was as white as snow.


	18. Gratefully

Sometimes she would wake up alone, his side of the bed cold as he’d been called to the throne room or rose early unable to sleep. If he was gone she would be chained to the wall again, the heavy links stretched taut in order to allow her to stay in the bed. There were times she woke with his body pressed on top of her, his teeth sinking into her skin as he spread her legs with his own, but what she liked most was waking up before him. That was when she could curl around him like a climbing vine, her head on his shoulder, tracing over the marks and scars on his skin, the lines of his features, the arch of his brow, feeling a sort of proprietary pride. Even in their terror, the girls of the kingdom all begrudgingly acknowledged he was handsome, alluring, the tempting serpent curled around a tree branch; and out of all the women in the kingdom he’d chosen her. Sometimes while he slept she would kiss the soft skin below his ear, her lips trailing down to the pulse point in his throat, so slow and even in sleep. It wouldn’t take long for him to respond to her touch, groaning and moving, turning onto his side and pulling her in closer. 

It was spring when she noticed the change. He’d woken first, pulling her into his arms, his hand reaching down between her legs as a way to rouse her. In order to give him easier access she’d changed her position, looking down at his chest in the early sunlight. On first glance she thought it was a trick of the shadows, the angle of her gaze, but when he flipped her onto her back and crouched over her she could see right in front of her eyes; the torch encased in ice was fading.

“What is it?” He asked when she gasped, her fingers on his chest.

“Sir, your…mark. Look.”

Draco sat back on his heels and looked down at the dark mark over his heart. She was right. The torch itself remained inky black, the outlines sharp and detailed, but the faceted, crystal like block of ice it was trapped in was lighter, looking more like tender, bruised skin than the black charcoal she drew with. He pushed off of Ginny and ran to the mirror across the room. Warped and scratched, it was an item he wasn’t fond of, never happy at what was reflected back at him; but now he stood in awe, running his fingers over the markings on his body. The others, the snake, the blade, the woman, were just as they had been the night before. The ice alone was disappearing.

He turned to look at Ginny, still in the bed, her eyes bright with excitement and…happiness? She sat back on her heels, her hands in her lap, a tiny smile on her face.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” She asked.

“I…I don’t know what it means,” he said. “Get dressed. We need to go see my father.”

  

The healers walked around him, speaking in hushed tones as he sat on the stone slab in the apothecary, his shirt unbuttoned, staring at Ginny who sat quietly off to the side, her face a mixture of worry and excitement. 

“It could just be a normal function of growth, your highness, your skin changing as you age. It has been nearly five years since the curse was cast.”

“None of the other markings have changed, has my back changed?” He directed the question over their heads, looking at her.

“N…no sir. Everything else is the same,” she said.

“Finch knows my body better than any of you,” he said, and she felt a little swoop in her stomach, a flare of heat in her cheeks. She looked down at her hands and smiled.

“The answer is obvious,” said King Lucius, stepping away from the wall. “The curse is broken. Or being broken. If I'm correct then I suspect in time it will fade completely.”

Draco roughly pulled his shirt back over his shoulders and buttoned it to the neck, jumping off the slab. He rarely left his chambers with any flesh showing, not caring to answer questions or entertain curious stares, and sitting amongst a group of healers with his chest bared made him even more uncomfortable.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Unless you have any answers on how to lift the curse and get rid of all of the marks entirely, this is all a useless exercise. Finch!”

She jumped from her seat and took her place beside him. He no longer pulled her through the corridors of the castle on her leash as she knew well enough to walk two steps behind him, her head down, watching the rhythm of his feet, quickly learning the patterns of discoloration in the stones, the number of stairs and doors it would take to get from the baths or the throne room to their chambers. She still wore her copper collar of course, as it was only removable by fire or beheading, but the leash almost seemed like decoration, a symbol of her servitude, sparkling between her breasts.

 

The days were getting longer but Draco still preferred spending most of his time by the fire with his Finch, taking most of his meals and baths there, Ginny sitting wrapped in a bear fur so she could stay naked in case he needed her. In fact as soon as they arrived back at the room she began unlacing the leather belt, anxious to see what he had planned for her, since she could tell his mind had been racing on their way back from the apothecary.

Two chambermaids were in his room setting out food and one of them was Lavender. They hadn’t had any interaction since she’d seen her with Pansy and Ginny wondered if the head concubine had done her a favor and kept the sharp tongued girl out of their way intentionally, but here she was, smirking at her as she filled the wine goblets. At the sight of her Ginny remembered Pansy’s words, that Lavender had “had her eye” on the Prince for years, and she felt the same dark, heavy pit of anger rolling up in her stomach, weighing her down. She didn’t want the girl coming here anymore. She didn't want her filling the Prince's bath or pouring his wine. Pansy was only a concubine and yet she’d been able to order the girl around, using a loud and powerful voice, making her shrink off like a beaten dog. Regardless of her position in the castle, she held herself regally, and now Ginny would do the same.

“Finch!” The Prince’s voice shook her from her thoughts and he snapped his fingers in her face. “You should be kneeling on the floor by now, shouldn’t you?”

Regardless of whether she’d heard his instruction, the answer was yes, and yet when she looked up to apologize, she saw Lavender laughing openly, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry sir,” Ginny said, her voice firm and confident, a voice she’d used long before she’d come to live at the castle. “I was distracted by the chambermaid. You see, I’m afraid that when you’re not here, she sneaks in to torture me. Now whenever I see here, I just...I'm terrified.”

Lavender looked up, her face almost comically struck with disbelief, her eyes wide, eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Draco spun around to look at her. 

“This one?” He said, pointing to Lavender before grabbing her by the arm.

Ginny felt what was almost physical pain at seeing him touch another woman, particularly when his chest was bare, his markings in full view. The markings, his skin, they were for _her._ She nodded, standing as tall as she could, her neck long, chin held high. These were her chambers, and this was her Prince.

“Yes sir. When you’re not here, she hits me with her scrub brush. Sometimes she pulls my hair, or kicks me in the stomach,” she was surprised at how easily she lied, taking great pleasure in watching the girl pale by degrees, the sneer on her face replaced by horror. She may have her freedom, but Ginny had the Prince’s devotion.

“You’ve hurt my Finch?” He asked her, yanking Lavender forward and throwing her to the floor between them. “Physically?” 

“Sir, your highness…no! No I promise you. I...I only tease her, I talk with her. I thought we…I thought we were friends!" She said, pleading on her knees. Ginny snorted in vicious laughter. "Ginny, tell him this isn't true. Tell him! I...I’m sorry your highness!”

Draco grabbed a fistful of her long, curly hair and wrenched her head back painfully, causing the chambermaid to cry out in pain.

“Don’t apologize to me, you worthless whore. Apologize to my Finch. Apologize for hurting her.”

Lavender turned her eyes to Ginny, a curious mix of rage and fear as she apologized, on her knees.

"I'm sorry Ginny, I'm sorry for all of it. Now tell him. Tell him that I've never hit you!"

“Stay here,” Draco said to both of them, sticking his head out of the chamber. Within two minutes he’d come back with a guard and yanked a crying Lavender to her feet.

Ginny’s heart dropped, her triumph beginning to tarnish just a bit. She’d only wanted the girl to be scolded, to get a little of what she’d given.

“Take her to the dungeon," Draco said to the guard, throwing Lavender into his arms. "Do whatever you want to to her, but I don’t want her released until she’s taken fifty lashes. If she passes out, wait until she wakes to continue.” 

Lavender screamed as she was taken from the room and Ginny sucked in her breath, willing her heartbeat to slow down. It had gotten out of hand. She’d only wanted to use a little of the power she thought she’d been given…to use the benefits of being under the Prince’s thumb. Draco stroked her cheek as he walked by, giving her a smile of approval.

“Good girl,” he said. “I'm glad you told me. You don’t need distractions.”

He pushed Ginny to her knees with a heavy hand on her shoulder and stood in front of her, pulling down on the redhead's lower lip, groaning at the sight of the wet seashell pink on the inside.

“Now then, where were we?”

 

 

She didn’t sleep well, even though he’d allowed her to stay in the bed, her legs wound around his, both of them toasty warm beneath the blankets. She lay awake, staring at the snake, sleepy and sated after eating a rat that she refused to watch Draco feed to it. It was coiling itself up for sleep, its tongue fluttering in the fading firelight.

Her Prince had fallen asleep shortly after fucking her, his touch surprisingly gentle; no ropes, no chains, no crop or whip. He’d had her kneel on the stone floor for him, made her crawl and beg, he’d pulled her hair and called her filthy names of course, but when he finally threw her on her back and spread her legs to plunge inside, she was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment that there had been nothing more. 

Perhaps she was feeling guilty about Lavender, a girl who she owed no allegiance to, but who she’d sent off to a dreadful punishment, purely out of jealousy and spite. Had Draco done what he’d promised right from the beginning? Digging down deep to find her? Was this who she really was, this dark hearted whore, lashing out people who’d hurt her? Or had he dug down to find something worse, someone who wanted to take the lash, to absorb the pain of those who had been hurt? Was this why the kisses and gropings of the boys in her village had bored her silly, why she felt no heat between her legs until Harry had hissed in her ear, his mouth covering her hand? Was this why she had been broken so easily…or rather not broken…but bent? Twisted?

She pulled away from Draco and snuck out of the bed, curling up in her place on the floor, cold washing over her naked body as she locked herself into her chain. Until she could do her penance, it was exactly what she deserved. 

Draco was surprised to find her side of the bed empty and for a brief, terrifying moment he’d wondered if she’d escaped somehow, throwing herself through one of the stained glass windows, or hurting herself, burning, cutting. He sat up with a start, relieved to see that she’d only gone to her place on the floor, curled up with her face to the wall, hiding.

“What’s this, pet?” He said, kicking her lightly with his toe. “Why did you leave me without asking?”

His tone was more of disappointment than anger, but she quickly scrambled to her knees, presenting herself with her head bowed as he’d taught her. She’d been crying.

“I don’t deserve to be in your bed, sir,” she said, only daring to look up at him, at his naked, marked body, his strong, muscled legs and scarred chest, for a moment before lowering her eyes to the floor. “I…I lied to you.”

He yanked her up to her feet by her hair, his eyes burning with rage. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so filled with such fury and while it frightened her, she knew it was deserved. Her eyes slid down to the torch on his chest, the fading ice around it, the pink, fresh skin beneath. She focused on it.

“What is you’ve lied about, Finch?” He held fast to her hair, slamming her against the wall, his face only inches from hers.

“Th-the girl. Lavender,” she said, shrinking away from him as best she could. She’d hadn’t felt as afraid of him since the day he’d brought her here, so unsure of what would happen next.

“Lavender?”

“Th-the chambermaid who was here yesterday, I told you that she tortures me, that she hits me when you’re not here. That wasn’t true.”

His grip on her loosened, but only partially, and his rage seemed to cool a bit, his brow furrowed in confusion, but his mouth turned up into a crooked grin.

“Why would you lie about that, girl?” He asked, his head tipping to the side as if attempting to read her mind. He let go of her hair but still kept her pinned against the wall for the interrogation. “She’s in the dungeons now, suffering quite a painful fate, little one. Why would send her to that?

She hesitated only because she was genuinely unsure of her answer, looking for the right words, the right reasons. She did what he would want, looking deep inside for the truth, rather than the words he’d most want to hear.

“Finch?”

“She does really hurt me…but only with words. She calls me names, tells me I’m worse than a dog and that I don’t make you happy.” She was pleased to see a little flash of anger on his face, the curl of his lip in disgust. “And Pansy told me that she wants you. She’s been wanting to…save you,” Ginny said, unable to hide her sneer at the words. He wasn’t someone who needed saving. “And just like when you were talking about that girl Astoria, it caused a pit in my stomach…bitterness.”

He nodded but didn’t move away from her, as if he knew there was something more she needed to say. She bit down on her lip to think and he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I was jealous,” she said. “But it was still wrong. She shouldn’t be suffering 50 lashes for something she didn’t do. And so I wanted…I wanted to ask you…”

“Yes Finch?” He was almost amused now, eager to hear her speak the words, to ask for what she needed.

“I need you to punish me, sir. Please.”

For a moment he said nothing, as if considering her proposal, but then he moved to the black chest and opened it, calling her over with this hand. 

“Only you know what kind of punishment you need, Finch. Pick what will be used and bring it to me like a good girl, then we’ll see about doing your penance.”

 

It took nearly three hours, but Ginny took fifty lashes with Draco’s black leather whip. He could tell when she was going to break down, when her body shook too hard, when she stopped talking, her head hanging low. He would stop then and soothe her with his mouth or his fingers, sometimes kneeling behind her to drag his tongue between her legs, finding her surprisingly slick and hot for someone suffering a punishment. When gave her her last seven she was sobbing, her whole body shaking with a kind of release he’d never seen, sweat soaking her hair, blood dripping from her back and the tops of her thighs; from her mouth a decadent, rolling moan as she twisted against her bindings. 

“What a good girl you’ve been for me,” he said, pushing her hair over her shoulder to kiss her neck. “You’ve always been such a good girl for me, Finch, even when I was so horrid to you. But you won’t lie to me again, will you, Ginny?”

“No sir, not ever sir.”

He slid the head of his cock between her legs, sliding up and down her slippery core.

“I forgive you,” he said, pushing into her in one hard thrust from behind, his chest flattened against her back, the sweat from his skin making the open wounds ache on her back. And yet she moaned deeper, pushing back against him, the flare of agony increasing the pleasure of him driving deep inside her. It only took a moment for both of them to reach their blinding climax.

She was weak, exhausted and disoriented when he untied her wrists. She fell back against him and he carried her to the bathtub, setting her in the warm water, shivering at the sound of her groan. She said nothing as he washed her back and poured warm water through her hair, doing his best to soothe her wounds.

“Tonight, Finch, I’ll introduce you to opium. You’ll feel much better,” he said, nuzzling against her neck. “Your punishment is over.”

“Thank you for my punishment sir,” she said quietly. “Thank you for all of it.”


	19. Gamma Draconis

Spring came with its warm fragrant air and new wildflowers dotting the hills. The sea was violent, churning up rocks and weeds and driftwood onto the beach where Draco took her for her first outing; her first day outside the castle in nearly nine months. She wore the long fur lined cloak that the King had loaned her when they went to the portrait room and the Prince showed her the dark, dank tunnel that lead from an alcove beside the throne room right to the little strip of sand just below the balcony.

After allowing herself time to adjust to the light, she stood in the bright sun and breathed deep, relishing the salt spray on her face, the wind whipping through her hair, now long enough that it nearly touched her waist. Usually she would pull the sides back in thin braids that she tied together at the nape of her neck, but he preferred it messy and windblown, he said she looked like a savage warrior that way.

Draco threw stones into the water while she picked up shells that he told her could be made into jewelry - a pretty bracelet or something for her ankle, a clip for her hair. There were artisans in the kingdom that could do incredible things with the treasures washed up on the sands and he promised to show her the next time the market was opened. She already wore the bear claw around her neck on a leather string, a matching piece to the black key hanging around his, which now was nothing but a symbol as she was rarely chained to the wall anymore. She spent every night in his bed and her days either drawing or painting or in the concubines' quarters, where she helped Pansy to care for the girls who were bleeding.

“You’re the nurturing sort,” Pansy had told her, welcoming her in on the first day. “You’re strong enough to take in the pain of others with the blink of an eye. It doesn’t affect you, does it?”

“I…I guess not,” said Ginny, watching the Prince stride away, leaving her with the others until the day was over.

 

The evenings were just for Ginny and Draco, and the chambermaids knew not to enter his chambers after the sun went down.

 

As their day outside wore on she could feel Draco’s spirit dropping as if his happiness were tethered to hers; internally she could sense the rise and fall of his mood. He stopped talking, perching himself on a tall, flat surfaced rock that looked out towards the cliffs beyond the palace while Ginny walked the shoreline looking for more shells, dipping her toes into the still icy water. The sun sunk low and blood red in the sky and the wind got colder as night approached, but still he sat on the rock, staring. She went to his side.

“Should we go in, sir?” She asked, wrapping her cloak tight around her thin form. 

“No,” he said, “Not until after the sun sets.”

His voice was unusually soft, no strength behind it. It sounded tired or wounded, but his words offered no opening for further conversation. The tide was coming in, surrounding the flat rock in cold water until she finally had to climb onto the rock to sit beside him, watching the sky go from peach to orange to purple in the twilight. He pulled her close and stretched out on his back, resting his head in her lap. His hair was bright and snowy pale in the gathering dark and she ran her fingers through it, smoothing it back from his face, tracing over his features with the tips of her fingers. The waves broke against the rock, spraying them with cold mist, making the tears on his face nearly undetectable until she looked down and saw his lip trembling.

“Sir, what…”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and angry. “Don’t ask, don’t say another word. Just sit and behave yourself.”

He looked up at the darkening sky, looking for the twisting line of stars that made up his namesake. Just a week before she died, he’d brought his mother down to the seashore, letting her lean her tiny, nearly weightless body against his while she drank in the scents on the ocean air. She’d asked to go out at night, wanting to show Draco something.

_“Look, my little angel, look up at that line of stars,” she said, holding his hand in hers and guiding it towards a along curving line of stars between the constellations of the two bears. “That is your namesake. Draco.”_

_She showed him how to find the head of the twisting dragon and count the stars from the tip of its curling tail to the diamond shape of its head._

_“That is where I’ll sit,” she said, pointing to the final and brightest star. “Every night I’ll sit atop that star and watch over you, making sure you’re becoming the man I know you’re meant to be. If you ever are lost or alone you can look for me. I promise to be right there."  
_

_“It won’t be the same,” he’d said, wrenching his hand from his frail mother’s grip. “I'm not a child anymore, so don’t pretend like it will be the same. I won’t hear your voice, I won’t feel your hands on my face. You won't really be watching me, you won't...”_

_“Then maybe I’ll send someone for you. Someone who can stroke your face and touch your heart and soothe your soul. Someone real...and not a ghost."  
_

_The Queen had watched her son fading ever since her sickness had sunk its claws into her body. She’d seen his anger building, his temper shortening, the darkness settling on him like a cloak, and she feared for what would happen once she was gone. If she wasn’t there to drag him into the light, he would just slip away completely.  
_

_“Don’t harden your heart to the world, Draco. That’s no way to live the life you’ve been given. It would break my heart to see you die along with me.”_

 

He sat up and looked over at Ginny who sat silently, just as he’d instructed, her knees pulled up so that she was hidden completely by her cloak, hair blowing free in the wind.

“What do you know about the stars?” He asked. “The constellations?”

“Nothing,” she said, shrugging. “I…only know to find the North star, and the belt of Orion. But I don’t know any of the stories, the myths.”

And so just as his mother had done for him, he took her cold hand in his and directed her pointing finger to the stars between the bears. He showed her how to find it, to count the stars in the tail and the head, and showed her the brightest star where his mother sat watching over him.

“Today is the anniversary of her death,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Ten years since she left me here. Every year I come out to this rock and look for her, thinking something will happen, a comet will fall, the star will wink back at me, the ocean will swallow me up, the constellation will change, some sort of magic will happen to let me know she is there, making sure I’m…” 

She took his hand and held it in both of hers to warm it. “Safe? Happy? Healthy?” 

He pulled his hand free and grunted in response. Throwing one last rock into the water he jumped down from the rock, pulling her down behind him and walking quickly to the dark tunnel that lead back to the palace.

_“You’re strong enough to take in the pain of others without a blink of an eye. It doesn’t affect you, does it?”_

She heard Pansy’s words echoing in her ears as they made their way up the long winding staircase cut into the dripping, musty stones.

 

Up in the throne room, most of the nobility of the kingdom were gathered, dressed all in black, sitting at their long tables for a memorial feast in the Queen’s honor. As musicians played, food was brought out on huge platters, servant girls bringing pitchers and pitchers of wine, the room filled with the fragrance of new spring flowers. King Lucius sat on his throne, also in black, wearing his crown and accompanied by no concubine in honor of his late wife. As Ginny and Draco emerged from the alcove at the mouth of the tunnel, everyone in the room turned to look.

“Draco!” The King thundered, the single word laced with a hours of waiting and anger at his absence. “You’ve missed the memorial to your mother. Come sit.” He held his hand out to the Prince’s throne, which, Ginny noticed, now had a black and green cushion on the floor beside it.

This was why he hadn't wanted to come back inside.  She could see on his face that he hated everything about this feast, about seeing these people in his throne room, some of them daring to laugh and chat and joke in the midst of his grief. She squeezed his hand in hers but he tore himself away, unwilling to be comforted.

“Come sit?” Draco called out.

She looked around at the tables, catching Hermione and Luna’s eye, the two of them staring at her and at the Prince, open mouthed, aghast, as if disgusted by their behavior. As if suddenly they were better than her, higher up.

“Come sit and watch people laugh and feast and play music…celebrating my mother’s death?” The musicians stopped instantly and Draco left Ginny in the doorway to wander up and down the narrow aisles between the tables. “Tell me, were you there, any of you to see her die? Did you hold her hand as she choked for her last breath, smelling of piss and blood and death,her lungs filling and drowning her?" 

“Draco…” The King stood from his throne, his voice low and threatening. “I will not…”

“Were any of you there to see a twelve year old boy begging on his knees for his mother not to leave him? Not to leave him alone inside these cold stone walls on this godforsaken rock? You weren’t! I don't remember any of you being there.” He picked up a goblet from one of the tables and threw it against the wall, wine dripping like blood down over the stones. “None of you were there to see how she suffered and now you sit here and eat our food and drink our wine and claim to remember her? Claim to honor her?”

The King stood, but saw that Ginny was already moving towards the Prince. She turned to catch the King’s eye and nodded to him. Draco did not see her approaching, his outburst taking over every cell of his body, the pain and ache of missing his mother for ten years bursting forth like a poisoned abscess. He saw Hermione, the proud little whore with the brown curly hair, sitting so primly with her plate full of food and cup full of drink, as if she’d been born to this luxury. She was staring at him with pity, as if he were embarrassing himself in front of her.

“What do you remember, whore?” He said, grabbing Hermione’s hair and wrenching her head back. “What are you here mourning? What did you love best about my mother? Was it how she smelled like lavender? Was it the stories she told? Her laugh?  The little speck of gold in her left eye? You don’t even know who she was!”

“My Lord, please!” Ginny finally called out, standing at the end of the table. “Please don’t hurt her. I don't want to see you hurt her.”

The room remained silent as Draco let go of her friend’s hair, dropping her back into her seat. When he looked up at Ginny she could see how badly he needed her, how much he was hurting and how she needed to take that hurt away. His eyes were rimmed red, filled with tears, his whole body trembling with anguish.

“Finch?” he said, his voice small and quiet.

“Come back to our chambers my Lord,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let me help you.”

The King watched carefully, the outcome of this exchange so critical, so essential to the future of his only son, the future of his kingdom. Hermione and Luna watched with eyes wide as their friend stood facing the murderously angry Prince and calmly held out her hand, her chin held high, her eyes bright and alive, certain in their purpose. Pansy stood in the corner with the other concubines, her smile wide and proud as Ginny stood her ground, holding the attention of every citizen in the throne room.

“Please sir. I can help you,” she said again, even though Draco was already stepping closer to her, the sound of his boots on the stone the only noise in the room.

The older nobility whispered and stared as the girl with the wild red hair and bright copper collar stood in her unusual black gown with her leather corset, drawing the Prince to her side as if by witchcraft, something in her words luring him in, the fight gone out of him completely.

“Finch, I need you,” he said, letting a single tear fall down his pale cheek.

He fell to his knees in front of the wild haired woman, wrapping his arms around her waist, his face pressed into her stomach as she sunk her fingers into his snowy white hair, stroking the back of his head. She looked at the King over her shoulder and he nodded, knowing it was best for them both to leave. He stood in front of his throne and watched as the girl pulled a broken Draco to his feet and took his hand in hers, leading him to the entrance of the throne room. And as they left and the musicians started a low and tentative score, Lucius sat back in his throne and smiled.


	20. The Fire

He held her hand tightly as they made their way back through the empty dark hallways to his room, his mouth set in a frown, eyes wet with tears that he tried to blink away. The closer they got, the faster he walked, until he was practically dragging her behind him, running for the sanctuary of his chambers, where no one could see that he’d fallen apart like a child, a weak and broken child, in front of the entire kingdom. His chest felt tight, his breath not filling his lungs. All he wanted was his bed, his bath, his fire, the familiar feel of the furs under his bare feet, the glow of the oil lamps. He wanted to strip out of his clothes and lay down with his Finch beside him, his mind wiped blank. He wanted to put this day behind him. And yet whenever he closed his eyes he was met with a vision of his mother. The vision wouldn’t allow him to see her how he wanted to remember her, but in her last days, when her skin was gray and paper thin, her eyes dull and barely open. His mind was so broken that he was only able to remember her when she was too tired to speak, only having the strength to hold his hand and squeeze it as a way of letting him know she was still there.

They finally got to the chamber and he threw the door open, storming in ahead of her, already unbuttoning his jacket.

“Sir, I…” she said, standing by the door and unbuttoning her own cloak; placing it in the wooden chest he’d given her for her small but growing collection of personal possessions. 

In her time with him she’d adopted his habit of stripping down as soon as they were locked in. She felt freer when she was nude, stronger, unwilling to hide. While some would be ashamed of the marks her body bore, the scars and welts, the scratches and bruises and bites on her flesh, she wore them like medals, a sign of her strength, each one of them a jewel that her Prince had given her. A jewel she’d earned.

“Sir…” she repeated, when she was down to just her collar, her hair smoothed down over her shoulders, the fine copper chain hanging between her breasts.

He wasn’t listening. The voice in his head was too loud. The sound of his mothers crying out in pain drowned everything else out. He stripped out of his clothes and paced the room, running his hand through his hair, sniffing and mumbling under his breath. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of the black chest opening, the creak of the old hinges followed by the low wooden knock of the lid against the foot of the bed that he stopped. He turned and saw her standing there in front of the open chest, holding the black handled cane balanced on her open palms. 

“What is this?” He asked, his fists clenched tight at his sides. She looked like a goddess in front of him - her long, creamy neck, the curve of her heavy breasts, his whip lashes, pink across her stomach and thighs. 

She walked closer and knelt in front of him, placing the cane at his feet. With her head bowed in reverence as she spoke,

“I don’t like to see you hurt. When you hurt, I hurt,” she said. “But when you hurt me, I know you feel better. And when you hurt me, I feel better. Better than I have in years. More alive, more like…me.”

When she looked up at him he was staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, surprised to see the tears on her own cheeks, the sadness that she bore for him.

“You forget that I lost my mother too. I don’t…I don’t remember her as well as you remember your own mother, but it still aches in my heart. Sometimes I hear the phrase of a song or smell bread baking or feel the breeze a certain way and I’m reminded that she’s gone, that I’ll never see her again. But maybe it's ok that I'm alone. Maybe I was sent here for you.”

He was still and silent, tears glistening on his cheeks. Of course he had forgotten. Just as he’d always forgotten everything about those around him, ignoring their pain, their desire, their joy. He’d become so thoroughly consumed with his own anger and pain that there was no room for compassion. 

“We can both feel better,” she said, slowly getting to her feet. Before walking away she took his face in her hands and kissed him gently on the lips, wiping the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs. His eyes were open, watching her with awe. After all this time she still refused to shrink away from him, refused to cower in fear. Even more, she refused to be ignored. 

“It helps you forget,” she whispered against his mouth, reminding him of what he’d told her so many months ago. “We’re going to be together a long time, you and I…any bit of comfort or pleasure we can find…we should take it.”

She placed the cane carefully at his feet and walked to the black chest, closing and kneeling in front of it, stretching her arms out wide over the top.

The silence was long and heavy, like a fog that settled over her, every minute that passed making her wonder if he wouldn’t do it, if he didn’t understand what she’d told him, or if he was too brokenhearted to believe it. She closed her eyes to the quiet, trying to hear his breathing, trying to call out to him with her mind, to assure him that it was what she wanted, that she knew the physical pain of the cane biting her skin would shake loose the pain he locked up in his heart and soothe the pain running through hers.

If he’d been a better man he would have resisted her, he would have told her to go to bed and forget what she’d asked of him. He would have told her that he was trying to be better. He was trying to be…human, and he was doing all that for her. She should have known better than to ask him to hurt her. She should have known better than to tell him she _wanted_ him to hurt her. He looked at her body laid out before him, her arms stretched long, her hair shining bronze in the low light, the slope of her waist and curve of her ass. How could he turn her down?

The cane whistled through the air and striped her skin, her back arching as a whimper of pain escaped her lips. But it wasn’t enough. Once could never be enough for either of them, both of them broken from loss and misery, both of them looking for something to feel. He snapped it across the tops of her thighs, bringing up two lovely red welts, but right now he wanted her to bleed. Blinking away newly sprung tears, he hit her again.

“She left me when I was twelve. I was only twelve and I had no mother!” he said, his voice cracking as he hit the soft flesh of her ass. “My father was the King, do you think he had time to comfort me? To walk me through my grief?”

Ginny moaned when he hit her again, feeling the wet heat slicking her cunt as he poured his heart out like hot venom over her skin. She spread her legs, tipping her hips backward so he could see the glistening pink shining through her wounds.

“I had no one! I was alone and that’s how they left me! Leave the Prince alone…he needs to cry, he needs to think. Leave him alone to mourn. No one asked me if I wanted to be left alone with this sadness! I didn’t want that! Why would I want that?”

He lifted the cane to hit her again but found his arm shaking, unable to bring it down. Instead he fell to his knees behind her, dropping the cane and running his hands over her skin. She was warm, her wounds hot to the touch, the flesh angry pink and glistening with little rubies of blood where it had broken. He licked at the stripes on her thigh and ran his fingers between legs, stroking her slowly, his breath tickling over the lips of her wet pussy as she pushed back against his hand.

“I became so used to being alone that I pushed everyone away," he said, so quietly it was almost to himself. "It was easier.” 

She ached for him, to feel him inside her, but she knew he needed her first, so she pulled her legs together and carefully sat back on her heels, puttinh her cheek down on the cool surface of the chest to breathe through her spent adrenaline rush, through the hazy ecstasy of fading pain, of every nerve ending being alive and on fire. Draco disappeared from behind her and she listened as he moved around the room, taking off his boots, picking up bottles, pulling back the bedcovers. 

“I’m so tired of being alone,” he said, pulling her up and into his arms and carrying her to the bed, setting her down on her stomach, placing a kiss on the bone at the top of her spine.

The luxurious fabrics were cool against her overly sensitive skin and she moaned in pleasure as her body slipped against them. The Prince, the man who had pulled her from the dungeon to be his slave, burning her gown and chaining her body, now dabbed at her wounds with a damp rag to clean them before rubbing soothing oils into her skin, his fingers teasing the slippery skin between her thighs as he worked. She turned her face to see his nakedness, his body glowing in the lamplight, his face tired but finally calm, the fire in his eyes faded for now. But still his cock was hard, thick and hard and waiting for her. 

When he finished his ministrations she sat up on her knees and kissed his mouth, pushing him onto his back.

“Now let me thank you sir,” she said, kissing her way down his belly, her fingers stroking over his chest, his ribs, down to the thick muscles of his thighs. She opened her mouth and licked up the length of him as he threaded his fingers into her hair, sighing in relief when he sunk himself deep into the heat of her mouth.

 

 

They were awake until long after the lamps burned out, until their lust was finally spent and they fell asleep like limp intertwined vines, Ginny’s head resting on his belly. A knock on the door indicated that the chambermaids were there to clean and bring food, and probably check on the status of the Prince in order to satisfy the gossip running through the palace. Ginny wrapped a sheet around her body and went to the door, opening it to Lavender and Astoria, both nearly quaking with fear. She held a finger to her lips to quiet them, but let them in the door and crawled back into bed beside Draco. As she pulled the coverlet back from his chest she gasped, covering her mouth with both of her hands.

“Miss? Is something wrong?” Astoria looked up from cleaning out the fire, worried that someone was injured.

“No,” Ginny said quietly, breathelessly, running her fingers over the pale, flawless skin of his chest. The ropy scar remained as well as the serpents, the dagger and the impaled woman, but the torch that had been locked in a chamber of ice was gone, leaving nothing but smooth, tender new skin behind. She smiled and covered him back up laying on the pillow beside him, staring up at the ceiling painted with stars. “Nothing at all.”

 


	21. The Mark

“Should we call the healers?” Ginny asked as the king looked over his son’s chest.

“What for?” He smiled kindly at her then looked back at Draco. “You know perfectly well why the mark is gone. The others remain because they are a remembrance of who you were. The mark on your heart was a threat of what you could be.”

Draco had woken to find Ginny staring at him, the smile on her face so bright and sincere he was nearly brought to tears at how it made his heart ache, sorry that it had been nearly eleven months and he’d never seen her smile like that. He couldn’t imagine ever having someone smile like that for him. Instead of speaking she’d put her hand on his heart. Once he’d seen the disappearance of the mark, Ginny sent Astoria to get the King, who had come to his chambers immediately. 

“I don’t feel any different,” Draco said, pulling himself out of bed and getting dressed. “If everyone was expecting the sun to rise on a saint,” he said, glancing quickly at Ginny, “they’ll be sorely disappointed. I still hurt.”

At the mention of the word his eyes slid back over to Ginny, who was sitting demurely on the edge of the black chest wrapped in a sheet, her smile small and proud at having finally found her place. She’d offered herself up in sacrifice, to take his pain. To absorb it, and it finally brought her peace. 

“What did you think would happen, son?” Lucius said, his smile small and knowing. “Did you think that when you finally found love your life would be free of pain and disappointment?” He stepped in closer and spoke at a whisper. “That you would no longer miss her?” 

Love? Ginny’s cheeks flared with heat. Was their twisted, broken, dark and bleeding partnership love? Was that what their baths together were? Was it the way he cleaned her wounds after whipping her? Was it the three little white finches that now lived in a cage by the window? Was love in the small moments of bliss, his lips on her neck, his tongue between her legs, the way he clung to her when he spilled inside her, his breath stuttering in her ear? When she looked up from her hands, Draco was staring at her with the same pensive surprise. 

Lucius straightened the collar on his son’s black linen shirt and smoothed the lapels of his jacket before moving to hold Draco’s face in his palms, like he’d done when he was a little boy, too distracted and angry to listen.

“We’ll always miss her. There will always be pain, sadness and hurt. Your Finch,” he said, holding a hand out to Ginny in order to pull her closer, “is here to help soothe it.” The King joined their hands together and stepped away. With a smile he placed a kiss on the crown of her head before leaving them alone in the room.

 

 

With the arrival of summer Draco took her outside more often. Down on the beach he would roll up the cuffs of his pants and unbutton the front of his shirt, allowing a bit more of his skin to show, no longer ashamed of the marks and scars that told his history, his face and neck getting darker with exposure to the sun, his hair more golden than white. Ginny was always be less inhibited than he was, her skirts tucked up into her belt as she ran through the shallow water, crouching down to scoop up baby crabs and iridescent jellyfish washed up on the sand. The sun brought out her freckles, toasting her skin a golden color, her hair like copper as she looked out toward the ocean like a wild and glowing sea goddess.

The day they found the cove hidden among the cliffs, with a deep pool of seawater heated by the sun, it was Ginny who gleefully stripped out of her dress first, plunging into the deep water. He peeled off his clothes soon after and slipped into the pool, pulling her against him, his fist in her hair as they kissed, her legs wrapped around his waist as they floated together. Leaning against the rocks he positioned himself between her legs and thrust inside her, his arms braced against the wall of the rocky pool, as she held tight to his body crying out with every hard push upwards. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, her skin tasting like salt. They moved together frantically, jerking and gasping in their shared climax, his tongue slipping down to trace the thickened scar between her breasts, a dark and swirling D.

 

The branding had been her idea. They’d been laying in bed, Draco once again drawing his initials on her skin with her body’s own sweet musk, then licking it up, torturing her with his incessant teasing, her hands tied helplessly above her head.

“You could mark me as your own,” she’d said to him, licking his fingers clean, her tongue trailing up the tendons of his arm, over the dark lines of the serpent as he hovered over her. “I wear a collar like all the other concubines and slaves, I’d like to have a mark or a sign that I’m yours. Like Pansy has.” She recalled the brand on the soft white flesh of the concubine’s breast, a beautiful dark pink impression of the King’s seal. “I don’t want to belong to the Kingdom. I want to belong to you.”

Draco’s eyes burned with want as she spoke, his mouth gone dry at the thought of her beautiful skin marked with his name, the way she’d writhe and cry out when the metal burned her skin, the way she looked when she trembled, how he would hold her afterwards. And so she designed her own marking in charcoal and he took it to the blacksmith, the same man who built the links of her chains, who built the shackles and bars that littered their chamber, the tools that were whispered about in the corridors, causing the screams that garnered even more gossip. 

“Will you do it yourself?” She asked him, as they watched the iron D glow red, then orange, then blazing white. She wore the fur-lined cloak with nothing underneath, comforted by Draco’s assurance that slaves were branded all the time; her nudity wouldn’t be noticed. They knew better than to openly covet the Prince’s property. 

“No, Finch. I want to hold you while they mark you,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “I want to watch your face as you become mine.”

She was already shaking, her lip trembling and her eyes wide as he helped her to lay back on the cold stone slab, her arms stretched out to the sides. The forge was in the courtyard of the castle and Draco had brought her outside in the purple gray dawn, a cold breeze off the sea making her body ripple with goosebumps. He’d never seen her so beautiful, her teeth chattering in the cold. She reminded him of the first day in his chambers, when she cowered away from him, her eyes darting around the room looking for escape.

“I’m scared,” she said. “I want to do this for you but I’m scared.”

He kissed her forehead, his hand running down over her breasts, her belly, to the warmth between her legs. She smiled and moaned as he slipped a finger inside her wet core, stroking her.

“Don’t I always take care of you, Finch?” He cooed in her ear, his other hand stroking her hair. “Don’t I know what’s best for you?” 

“Yes sir,” she said, her hips grinding against his hand, feeling the heat rushing through her blood.

He added a second finger and thrust inside slowly. Watching the blacksmith pull the iron from the fire, letting it cool back to gold.

“Don’t I always make you feel so much better after you’ve been hurt?” He ran his tongue along her jawline and kissed her cheek, his fingers working faster inside of her, his thumb brushing over the sensitive pearl at the top of her cunt.

“Yes! Oh God please, sir…yes!”

The blacksmith approached and Draco stepped back, still stroking Ginny to the edge of her climax, still whispering to her in a low, buttery voice.

“Do you want to wear my mark, Ginny? Do you want to belong to me forever?”

“Yes…Dr…Dra…Draco. Yes!”

He nodded to the smith as she came, her back arched like a bow off the slab, her legs thrown wide open as he scissored his fingers through her wetness. The molten iron seared her flesh, sending smoke and screams into the air, the smell of burnt skin filling their nostrils as she shook and cried, her body convulsing with agony and orgasm.

 

He scooped her into his arms and brought her back to their room, laying her out on the bed as she continued to cry and groan in pain, the wound ugly and dark on her breast, a hideous stain against her snowy white skin. He gave her opium and lay beside her, rubbing her back, combing his fingers through her smooth, soft hair.

“What did you do today Finch?” He asked, running his hand down the length of her spine.

“I took my Prince’s brand. I became his," her voice was dreamy with exhaustion and contentment.

He kissed the skin between her shoulders.

“Did you cry today Finch?” He continued, following their usual routine, peppering her neck and back with kisses as he asked his questions.

“Yes sir, but not because of you.” 

“Very good girl,” he said. “Did you touch yourself today?”

She looked over her shoulder and smiled weakly at him, shaking her head.

“No sir.”

Finally he rolled her onto her back and kissed her mouth, amazed at how gorgeous her tear-stained cheeks were, the way her pain made her eyes glitter, her cheeks bright and pink. And now she was his. Every day. Every night.

“Are you completely miserable here with me Finch?” He asked, and she saw the sincerity in his silver eyes, she saw the sad and broken boy, the hardened, angry man, the passionate, heated and confident Prince. And now he was hers, forever.

 

“No sir, not at all.”


	22. Epilogue

The tour guide lead a small group through the preserved wings of the ancient castle, noting the vast stone balcony looking out over the sea, the stained glass murals in the old throne room, held safe behind protective iron gratings.

“This is the portrait hall, showing the last six generations of rulers to keep residence here.”

The group walked past the carefully restored paintings, three kings with a strange combination of fiery red hair and pale grey eyes, each flanked on the wall by their queen and their successor. Until one painting stood alone, the space beside his portrait eerily blank.

“This is Draco the Solitary. You’ll see no queen as he never married, but he did have two sons by his lover, who lived with him for thirty years. History tells us she was initially a slave brought to the palace. The archives indicate that somehow saved the Prince’s life although no details are listed. She was his only known companion, but refused to take the position of Queen, or even Wife.”

“What was her name?” A tourist asked, still entranced by the picture of the stoic and pale skinned King towering over them dressed all in black, his arms at his sides, a sword in one hand and a coiled black leather whip in the other.

The tour guide only shrugged, anxious to move on to the next part of the tour.

“We don’t know, but if you look at the King’s portrait, you’ll see a small iron cage at his feet containing a red bird. The archives refer to Draco’s lover as The Red Finch, and in fact it’s the only name on her gravestone in the royal tomb.

The tour moved on through the castle to one of the preserved turrets containing a vast bedchamber with the thick posts actually carved into the floor and ceiling. As the guide droned on about the history of art and architecture and advent of plumbing in the castle, one of the tourists walked around the large room, observing the various royal artifacts mounted on pedestals or preserved behind glass. On one wall there were two heavy iron eyebolts hammered into the stone, no more than two feet off the ground. A small plaque beside them read:

“Iron eyebolts – purpose unknown – Do Not Touch”

The walls were cluttered with charcoal drawings and faded paintings along with bits of weaponry and clothing - a wide leather belt that laced up the front, a black leather jacket, brittle and tattered, once worn by the king. Beside the massive fireplace was a small painting, no bigger than an 8x10 photograph. It pictured a woman, her skin milky pale, her hair a beautiful deep copper, matching the collar around her neck. In the painting she is standing nude on a rocky beach, her back to the viewer, holding her hair up in a messy pile on her head as she glances over her shoulder. The tourist leaned in closer to examine the finer details, squinting up his eyes to make sure he was seeing what he thought. The woman’s back was covered with pale, nearly undetectable scars, stripes that one might think were a painting technique, the trick of a brush stroke. But they were clearly intentional, some darker than others, some nearly pale pink, criss crossed from her shoulders to the backs of her knees. A few hastily scrawled words at the bottom of the painting were impossible to read, but a plaque beside it let the tourist know the name of the piece:

 

“The Snow That Gratefully Absorbs The Fire”

 

 

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for their Kudos and kind comments and questions. It's half of what inspired me to keep going with this story. This was my very very first HP (ish) fic and I loved writing it. I have ideas for some further Drinny and Dramione fics, so once my calendar clears up I will be back in full smut force ;)


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